All Right, This One's For All The Marbles
by Percentile
Summary: And we thought the crazy would end once we left South Park.
1. Frowning at the TV

A/N - Hola! I have no idea what this is or anything, it's pretty stupid and pointless and plotless, but a half-finished version has been sitting on my laptop for months and months and months so I figured, if I'm not going to delete it (because I don't delete anything. I hoard my virtual documents like a crazy person), I might as well post it and see what happens or if people like it and actually _want_ it finished or something. I dunno. I never know. That's nothing new. It's pretty weird, kinda OOC, it's Style (again, hey!), set when they're, like, in their late 20's, so a new formula thing for me. It won't be long, probably. I'm not sure. I'm also not sure when I'll next get a chance to update (Uni is invading my life particularly persistent alien race). So, hey! Candyfloss lovers.

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><p>It had all started one lazy Sunday morning. Kyle had been blissfully asleep, his face driven into a pillow, the duvet looped around his legs. A minute later and Kyle was blisslessly awake, two hands shaking his shoulders, an intruding voice calling his name.<p>

Rubbing sleep out his eyes, he glared up an overly cheerful Stan, frowning as Stan beamed down at him. Then Stan strung together the five words that formed one of Kyle's most, _most_ hated sentences.

"Let's go for a walk!"

After half an hour of muffled curses and huffy resistance, after half an hour of wriggling away from Stan and trying to bury himself deeper within the bedding, Kyle reluctantly relented. After frowning and his reflection in the bathroom mirror for ten minutes, after angrily brushing his teeth, and angrily neglecting to shave, he pulled on into the most unflattering, the most mismatched set of clothes he could find, and petulantly told Stan he was ready.

Kyle had to admit it wasn't all bad. The weather was relatively acceptable, the park was relatively quiet so _early_ in the morning, and Stan had one arm slung lazily across his shoulders. It made walking slightly awkward, but the warmth was rather pleasing. Kyle had his own arms crossed tightly across his chest, clutching the cuffs of an overly worn mauve jumper in his fists, hiding his hands from the chill. He was talking, well, complaining about something pointless to Stan, his brow creased in a frown, nose wrinkled in expressive distaste. Stan was hmm-ing and nodding rhythmically, filling Kyle's pauses with lacklustre affirmations.

Part way through a rant about a client, Kyle glanced up, and frowned; Stan wasn't paying attention to him. This was somewhat perturbing. Stan always paid attention to him. Or at least, convincingly pretended he was paying attention to him. No, Stan wasn't paying attention to him, and he wasn't even pretending to pay attention to him. Stan was instead staring at the people in front of them, staring at the woman in front of them with a very peculiar look on his face. Still frowning, Kyle blinked, before following his eye line, trying to see what was so important.

Then he realised. Stan was staring at some random woman's arse. He was very obviously most defiantly just staring at some random woman's arse. He was _checking her out_. This was new, new to Kyle, new for Stan. Stan didn't check strangers out; he didn't ogle strange arses. Well, not any more. Since he got over his unfortunate addiction to crack, Stan'd only had eyes for Kyle, he only _leered_ at Kyle's arse. Stan only thought about things like that when it was _Kyle_.

Or so he thought, anyway. Kyle bit at his lip, his heart thumping painfully; he wasn't quite sure how to react to this.

Unfurling his fist, he reached up, grabbing a handful of Stan's jacket, pulling at it, pulling at him in a painfully childish, painfully _embarrassing_ way.

"Stan?"

Stan blinked, blinking that peculiar expression off his face. Shaking his head, he smiled, smiling down at Kyle. "Sorry Ky, I was miles away. What were you saying?"

Kyle just stared at him, utterly bewildered, and slightly offended. "It doesn't matter, I guess."

"Well, okay then. You wanna go get some coffee?"

"Alright."

xxx

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xxx

The incident had perturbed Kyle. The incident continued to perturb Kyle for quite a while. He wasn't quite sure how to deal with the situation; he wasn't quite sure if he should mention it, if they needed to talk about it, or if they should just leave it alone. He wasn't quite sure if it would go away, or if it would happen again. He wasn't quite sure _what it meant_, what was going to happen, what Stan was going to do, whether Stan was bored, just what-what-_what_ was going _on_.

It was getting dark. Kyle usually tried to avoid driving in the dark. At least when he was on his own, anyway. It wasn't so bad when he was with someone. Driving with Stan. Stan, Stan kept him alert and awake, and often irritated. But amused, an amusing sort of irritation. It was always amusing driving with Stan. Frowning, Kyle bit the inside of his lip, clutching the steering wheel tightly. A tacky, powder blue Chevvy undertook him, going that dangerous bit too fast on roads too slick with spring ice, part melted snow and miserable sleet.

Kyle pursed his lips; he wasn't best pleased he was out this late. But his dad's Mac had broken, and he'd needed Kyle to go and fix it. Kyle'd unplugged it, waited five seconds, and plugged it back in again. Turns out everything was fine. The remaining three hours had been spent shooting his father disapproving looks, eating his mothers beef stew, and attempting, somewhat unsuccessfully, to worm his way out of her expert prying.

Sighing gently, Kyle narrowed his eyes. It was getting harder and harder to see clearly. Not just this night, but over the past couple of nights. He wasn't quite sure if that was just winter, if it was just the harsh, descending darkness playing tricks on him, or if it was actually _him_, if after all these years his eyes had finally decided they didn't want to function properly anymore, if they'd just decided to give out. It wouldn't surprise him; with everything else he had wrong with him, why not add in a good dose of myopic misery? It wasn't like he was battling enough as is.

Still, it would explain why he found it so hard to drive in the dark. And why Stan kept on telling him he was frowning at the TV. Kyle'd always just assumed it was because of the amount of idiots they paraded about on the screen. If he was indeed frowning at the TV (he had yet to coincide that point to Stan, he still adamantly refused he frowned at anything) it wasn't because of the physical box, but more the morons on it. He was frowning at the people on TV, all those stupid Z-listers and wannabe nobodies, those stupid stuffy professors who were about as reliable as Uncyclopedia and no where near as funny. At those newsreaders who always looked like hookers, and read the headlines in those weird, stilted accents. Those idiots deserved to be frowned at.

Kyle sighed again, deeper this time, easing up on the gas as he indicated to change lanes. He couldn't get what Stan had done out of his mind. It'd been bothering him all day, all week, the whole walking, leering, awful incident. He just couldn't stop thinking about it. He was relatively certain he was reading too much into it. He was relatively certain he wasn't reading _enough_ into it. Quite frankly, he didn't know how much reading a situation like this required. Yeah, Stan was just _looking_, but _just looking_ could be the tip of an iceberg. If Stan's _just looking _was the tip, what kind of horrendous, writhing mess was looming about under the surface? What godforsaken storm was brewing on the horizon?

The car in front stopped so suddenly it skidded. Swearing violently, Kyle slammed down his breaks, jerking forwards the pick-up truck behind rear ended his Toyota, shunting him into the back of the Chevvy. Air bags deployed, the seat belt locked, and Kyle just sat there, blinking stupidly.

xxx

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xxx

Stan had tried calling Kyle to see where he was, but he'd not picked up. He should have been home hours ago, he said he'd be back for dinner, but he wasn't. He was never back for dinner when he visited his parents. Leaving Shelia Broflovski's house without dining was like trying to leave a cult before the suicide. Once you're in there, sometimes it was just easier to give up and lie down.

Besides, since Ike had disappeared of to that prestigious graduate school tucked right up in the arsehole of Canada, she'd been overly protective of the one son still within driving distance. Stan wouldn't be surprised if she'd strapped Kyle to a seat somewhere whilst she subjected him to a marathon bout of overprotective mothering. A bout that probably included much chiding and cookie baking. Or kipferl baking. Whatever. It didn't matter that Kyle was twenty-eight years old, it didn't matter that he'd moved out, got a job, fallen in love, all that shit. It didn't matter that he'd made a life for himself, a life without her. It didn't matter what he did, what either of her children did, fuck, they could win Nobel Prizes, Pulitzers, The Man Booker Prize, they could be inaugurated into the fucking White House, and Sheila Broflovski would still refuse to accept that they didn't need her to tuck them in at night and fight their battles for them.

Stan sighed, pulling the duvet off one of his legs. He was finding it particularly difficult to get comfortable. The winter night and the central heating seemed to be fighting a particularly volatile battle in the airspace. Under the covers was too stuffy, over the covers and his feet began to go numb. He needed Kyle there, Kyle was like a little humming space heater, a humming space heater with an exposed back that Stan often liked to warm his feet on. No matter how much this icy footed intrusion caused the space heater to complain.

The phone rang. Stan frowned at it, twisting across the mattress as he stretched to pick it up.

"Stan?" Kyle was panting somewhat on the other end. Stan deepened his frown, "Yeah Stan, can you come pick me up?"

Stan groaned, rubbing his face against his forearm. "What? From your _parents_? Have you been drinking or something? Fuck Kyle, it's like, _midnight_. I have _work_ tomorrow! No! Just stay the night _there_!"

"No, no, I'm-I'm at the hospital. I've… There's been a bit of an accident. Can you come and get them to discharge me? I… I need a ride home."

It took Stan all of fifteen minutes to reach the infirmary. He arrived wide eyed and flush-faced, dressed in the first medley of clothes he'd managed to pull out of the dirty laundry hamper. This mixture of panic, disorganisation, wide eyed raving, and a frankly hideous lack of colour coordination nearly traumatised the nurse behind the reception desk, who wasn't quite sure if she should help him, commit him, or have him arrested. Stan, unaware of this, simply continued demanding to know where _he_ was, what had happened to _him_, if _he _was okay, why she wouldn't take him to _him_, almost as though he expected the underpaid nurse to know (via a feat of clairvoyance or whatever) who his fervent pronouns were referring to.

Eventually, after much wide-eyed feverancy and many ambiguous demands, Stan realised it would probably be a good idea to actually mention Kyle's name. The nurse, after finally gleaning the situation, had led him to Kyle, absently mumbling something under her breath as she waved Stan off across the ward. Kyle was sitting side-saddle on one of the beds, arms crossed tightly across his chest, glaring bitterly at the person bleeding profusely a few feet away from him, clearly unimpressed with his somewhat impressive blood loss.

Reaching out, Stan caught his head, pulling him against his chest, gently pressing him against the sweater. Kyle just frowned at him, still perched on the edge of the bed, his forearms and palms loosely bandaged, his head pulled forward at a fairly awkward angle. Stan was wearing that mauve sweater he'd worn to go on their walk. It was only now Stan was wearing it that Kyle realised just how hideous it really _was_. He'd known it was hideous, he'd just not realised it was _that_ hideous. It was like, _Cartman_ hideous.

Dimly Kyle wondered how he'd ever managed to convince _anyone_ to fuck him if his dress sense was seriously _that_ bad, let alone how he'd managed to convince someone as comparatively _dapper_ as Stan.

Stan was just smiling against him, all forced and choked. "I just… I just don't know what I'd do if… You're like, the _only_ person who… The only person who…"

Kyle frowned. "I'm the only person who what? I'm the only person stupid enough to bend down in front of you?"

"_Kyle_!"

"Jesus Christ, it's just airbag burns and a few bruised ribs. If you're going to choke yourself up about _anything_, do it about my _car_!"

"We can _replace_ the car. The car doesn't _matter_."

Kyle frowned. "That's easy for you to say. It wasn't _your_ car."

"It _doesn't matter_!"

"It does to _me_."

"Just _shut up_."

Kyle just blinked up at him, still frowning. Stan had wetness glistening behind his eyes. His voice was breaking, and he had wet eyes. He was trying to hide it, trying to blink it away and pretend he didn't, but it wasn't working. Exhaling slightly, Kyle wound his own arms back round Stan, burying his face into his sweater. "God Stan, you are such a _pussy_ sometimes."

"I know."

"Yeah."

Stan was toying with the ends of Kyle's hair, smiling blearily at nothing. At the busy ward behind them. "Dude, I think you need a haircut."

"I think I need to burn that sweater. Fuck, it's _awful_. Why didn't you ever tell me I looked _that_ stupid!"

"I just assumed you knew."

"No! Jesus Christ, why on earth would I _wear_ it if I knew?"

"I dunno. You do some crazy shit sometimes Ky, I'm never quite sure if it's intentional or not."

"Oh, _whatever_. Just hurry up and make them let me go. I hate hospitals."

"_Everyone_ hates hospitals. They're awful places. Nothing but death and sickness. And disinfectant. Death, sickness and disinfectant. It's part of the human condition, to, you know, to get sick and die, for every last trace of you to end up disinfected off the face of the earth. It's human to hate hospitals."

Kyle groaned, rubbing his face. "Yes, very _poetic_. Now please dude, just _shut up_ and get them to discharge me."

xxx

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xxx

After hearing about his accident via his Facebook rant, Kyle's work had called him to "strongly suggest" he took a few days off to "recover". Kyle had been adamant that he was alright, but his boss was insistent. Stan was relatively certain "take time off to recover" was code for "don't come back in here until you've finished fucking bitching about your stupid pissing car, yeah?", but he didn't mention this to Kyle. He just kissed him chastely on the cheek the next morning, and made his hastily exit.

Kyle wasn't best pleased about his enforced vacation. It wasn't that he was particularly enamoured with his job, he didn't mind it, he didn't _hate _it, he even sometimes liked it, it was more that without a _car_, without Stan around, or anyone around, really, having to stay at home all day was just flat out _boring_.

When not forced to take sick leave, Kyle worked some part-time bohemian job developing pioneering software that didn't really do anything important but certainly sounded very flashy. It was the sort of job that saw him start at ten and finish at three, the sort of job that only demanded four days work a week, the sort of job that saw him slouch into work in worn jeans and crumpled t-shirts, log on to Facebook, and do nothing all day but water some virtual crops. It had none of the starched collars and pressed trousers demanded by Stan's rigidly corporate organisation.

Stan wrote jingles for an advertising agency. A very stuffy, very old-fashioned advertising agency. He worked nine-till-five, he wore suits and ties, and he loathed the fact that no matter how early he snuck out of the office, or how late he left it to leave home, Kyle would always swan out the house after him, and swan back in before. Still, there was one plus to Stan's job. Stan got an office. Granted, it was a small office. And it didn't really have any windows or anything. Or any air vents. And it was vaguely claustrophobic. And it smelt a bit peculiar, for no apparent reason. But it was still an office. An office with a massively imposing, ergonomic desk chair (a chair that took up a good quarter of the floorspace). Kyle's company was open plan, and they all had to sit on stupid red balls that were supposedly good for posture or something. Stan didn't know. He didn't really care, either.

Kyle groaned, pressing his fingers against his temple, cursing bitterly under his breath. There was never anything good on TV in the mornings; after an hour or two of watching trailer trash scream slurred obscenities at each other behind security guards, he was beginning to loose the will to live. Exhaling, Kyle arched his back over the arm of the living room couch, fumbling above his head for the phone. They used to have a cordless handset, a sleek black, highly technological thing that Stan was overly proud of. So proud, in fact, he kept on hording the actual phone part of the phone in the desk, or in the kitchen cabinets, or in his sock draw, or in the bathroom cabinet. Anywhere the phone would fit, really. Anywhere but on the docking station, anywhere but where it was _supposed_ to be. After a few months of repeatedly missed calls and frantic games of seek-the-handset, Kyle snapped, and presented Stan with an ultimatum: either buy a phone with one of those curly cord things, or I stab you with this chrome letter opener.

Stan had meekly relented, and replaced the phone. He'd also taken it upon himself to hoard the letter opener away, safely concealing it in the decorative bread bin. Just to be on the safe side or whatever.

Exhaling Kyle dialled upside down, rubbing his face as the phone rang. It was Powder who answered, her voice oddly chirpy, oddly forced.

"Hello?"

Kyle wrinkled his nose in displeasure. He really did not like that woman. "Hey Powder, can you please put Kenny on?"


	2. Shoot Him in the Face

Kenny let himself in. Even though they'd told him not to, even though they'd begged him to knock, or ring the bell, or text them, or _something_, he still let himself in. At first he'd only done it because he'd been excited they'd trusted him with a spare key. Hardly anyone ever trusted him with a spare key, especially not to houses as nice as Stan and Kyle's, as nice as their pathetically clichéd, clean, provincial little townhouse, situated just on the outskirts of the achingly stylish part of Denver, that part of Denver where all the childless young professionals lived, where everything was nice and green and _expensive _and so San Francisco-ish, so it was sort of a big deal for him. He'd wanted to milk it for all it's worth. Now the gleam of the gesture had worn off, he did it just to annoy them. The irritation Stan, not so much Kyle, but very much Stan felt when Kenny just willy-nilly sauntered into their sunshine-bright little living room, was well worth the mental trauma he'd developed from the numerous unclothed moments he'd accidentally walked in on.

Kyle was lounging over one of the broad arms of the (fairly hideous, at least in Kenny's opinion) forest green settee. He looked about as happy as a deflated plush toy, and no-where near as cuddly. With his lower arms bandaged loosely to his elbow, with his bright eyes glaring out over the sofa, under his hair, angry and judgemental, he sort of looked like an unsuccessful suicide attemptee. But Kenny wasn't going to tell him that. He'd known Kyle long enough to know you don't poke the bear when it's already pissy. And Kyle was very, very clearly, already pissy.

Kenny raised his eyebrows, casually leaning back against the painfully bright white doorframe, his back to the landing, the staircase. It always mildly irritated Kenny that they'd brought a house with three floors. As narrow as the floor plan was, and as much as they tried to justify it, it always smacked a bit of showing off. His and Powder's house (or shack, if you were being technical) only had one floor, and it was a fairly shitty floor at that; yet here Stan and Kyle were with _three_. He was missing one, they had an extra one. They didn't even really use the lower one for anything, everything they needed was on the upper two. Sure, they greeted people down there, and sure, they had several nice potted plants scattered about, but aside from that, all they used it for was coat storage. Coats and shoes. They'd brought a whole floor to store their coats and shoes.

Kenny frowned, crossing his arms across his coat. He refused to leave his coat down on their coat floor. It was his way of protesting it. No-one should have a coat floor, regardless of how well you did at college. "Should you really be lying like that? Surely that can't be good for your ribs."

"I don't care. They hurt no matter what. At least this way I can focus the pain."

"You're such a drama-queen sometimes." Kyle made some unimpressed pout-like groan, clearly demanding attention, sympathy. He clearly wanted to be coddled. Kenny ignored him, too busy picking at his nails. Coddling him was Stan's job, Stan's or his mother's, but definitely not his. "Anyway, I can't stay long, so don't get too exited."

Kyle frowned. "Why? Where are you going?"

"I'm taking Powder out to dinner tonight. It's our date night." At the sound of the name, Kyle made some dismissive, Yiddish throaty snort, pressing his face down against the fabric couch arm. Kenny just deadpanned him a glare. "Oh, you just don't like her because she said you looked stocky that _one_ time." Kyle pursed his lips, his face still driven against the fabric. Kenny just crossed his arms, frowning darkly. "Stan calls you stocky _all the time_. It's one of your fucking _pet names_!"

"Yeah? Well Stan's _fucking_ me. He can call me whatever the _fuck_ he wants."

"She said you looked cute too!"

"_I don't give a shit_."

"God you're a _dick_ sometimes!"

"Oh_, fuck you_! I'm fucking _injured_! You're supposed to be being nice to me!"

"Oh, you're _fine_! Don't milk it! You had a _bump_, it's no big _deal_! Christ, anyone would be happy to have a few days off sick, and here you are acting like they're forcing you to work _overtime_!"

Kyle paused slightly, turning his face away, curling round slightly. "I'm not."

"You are!"

Kyle sighed, sitting up suddenly, covering his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I'm really not."

"You're _not_ milking this?"

"No, I'm not _fine_."

Kenny narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?" Kyle just ignored him. He was frowning into his hands, chewing at his lip. Kenny just cleared his throat. "Kyle, what do you mean? Do you need a doctor or something? I _told_ you you shouldn't lie like that! Christ, when it comes to bruised ribs, I sort of know what I'm talking about yeah?"

"It's not the way I was lying! It's-It's… You know, it's fine. I'm just tired. They kept me in the hospital until, like, two in the morning."

Kenny blinked. Kyle could be a pretty terrible liar, especially when he wasn't trying. Uncrossing his arms, Kenny stepped forwards, walking into the living room, sitting on the coffee table, facing the sofa. Facing Kyle. Kyle had forbidden him from sitting there after that one time he'd accidentally gouged a dent into the sleek wood with a rivet on his jeans, but hey. Kyle was obviously not in any mood to scold him, not today. "Seriously Kyle, what's up?"

Kyle blinked, his eyes glued to his fingertips, his gaze pointedly averted. "I'm just tired. I couldn't get to sleep last night."

Kenny furrowed his brow slightly. "Dude, just stop with the bullshit. You didn't call me over here to tell me you were _tired_. You're not _that _needy. What the fuck's the _matter_ with you?"

"I-I… _I don't know_." Kyle exhaled, curling himself up into a miserable ball, his knees pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped round his legs. Kenny just blinked at him; it was a fairly pathetic spectacle.

"What do you mean you don't know? _How can you not know_?"

"Stan was checking out some woman the other day."

Kenny just stared at him, completely nonplussed. "I'm sorry, but what?"

"When we were walking. He was ignoring me-"

"A lot of people ignore you. You squawk _a lot_ about pointless shit sometimes. He'd go insane if he didn't ignore you. Anyone would."

Kyle glared at him, pressing on with his sentence. "He was _ignoring me_ so he could gawk at some woman's ass! He was, like, totally leering at her. And not _me_."

"You're upset… Because Stan checked out some woman's ass? Because he wasn't _leering _at you?" Kyle nodded. Exhaling, Kenny just ran his hands across his face, still staring at him with the same, wide-eyed, blindsided expression. Still absolutely incredulous. "_Seriously_? Stan checked out a woman? _This is seriously the biggest problem in your life right now_?"

"Yeah."

Kenny blinked. He wondered if all middle-class problems were as retarded as this. "Oh, my God. I mean… I mean _fuck_ Kyle! Stop behaving like such a little _bitch_!"

Kyle just glared at him for a moment, before sighing heavily, drooping dejectedly, completely wrapped up in his own world of misery. "You just don't get it. It's horrific. _I'm horrific_. It's no surprise Stan's gawking at every ass that wiggles by. Fuck, I'm surprised he hasn't _dumped_ me yet."

"You do realise you're being _ridiculous_, right? Every day I pray he's the one that dies first, ya know?"

Kyle frowned. "That's a bit of an awful thing to say."

"I don't mean it _maliciously_. It's just that if you die first, he's going to be an absolute fucking wreck. I mean, fuck, he'll go all Grayfriars Bobby on us and refuse to leave your headstone. At least you'll be alright on your own. I mean, sure, you'll be _sad_, but you'll at least be _sensible_."

"You do realise I'm almost certainly going to die first, right? I'm diabetic, sickly, unhealthy, I have one functioning kidney, a kidney that once belonged to _Cartman _for fucks sake! Fuck, I've already fought though a plethora of serious diseases, who knows what's next? I'm just not built to last. Stan is. Longevity runs in the Marsh family; Christ, his grandpa lived to be like, a hundred and twenty! He had to practically _chase_ death down before it took him! Stan isn't going to be felled off easily."

"Well if he lashes himself to your fucking gravestone, I'm not going to be the one who feeds him!"

"No! That's not fair! If I die first you have to _promise me_ you'll feed him."

"Fuck off! I don't want to inherit your obligations!"

"_Kenny_!" Kyle whined it, all big eyed and disapproving. Kenny just sighed, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. Since he'd managed to usurp Eric from his life, Kyle had had to distribute his overreacting melodramatic tendencies elsewhere. He'd taken to taking everything else that bit too seriously. It was rather irritating.

"Alright, fine! I'll feed your fucking boyfriend for you! Jesus Christ Kyle, you'd better outlive him. Or at least have the decency to shoot him in the face when you feel the end is nigh."

"Thank you!"

Kenny just pulled a face, propping his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his forehead. After a minutes silence, he blinked, narrowing his eyes towards the window. It was a lovely day, and a lovely view. It was only an hours drive away, yet it was a completely different world to South-Park. There was a completely different world waiting for all those who'd managed to get out. "Are we really that old we're completely at ease contemplating our own mortality?"

Kyle shrugged, lounging back against the cushions. "Well I did just have near death experience. Those always make you contemplate things."

Kenny glowered at him. "Getting rear ended does _not_ count as a near death experience. Fuck Kyle."

"_Hey_, people die on the road all the time Kenny. A little faster, a little to the left, a little closer, who knows what could have happened." Kyle frowned, shifting slightly. "Besides, my ribs really actually hurt."

Kenny shut his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I did tell you not to lie like that."

"Well, my arms hurt too!"

"You're milking it again."

"Shut up."

xxx

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xxx

Blinking slightly, Kenny pulled a face. He wasn't quite sure what it was they were watching, he assumed it was supposed to be a documentary of some kind, but he couldn't be certain. Whatever it was, it was clearly aggravating Kyle. He was frowning at the TV, his arms crossed, his face set. Kyle always frowned at the TV. Kenny was never quite sure if it was because of what was _on _the TV, or if it was because he couldn't _see_ the TV. He assumed it was the latter. Nevertheless, he'd be damned before he suggested Kyle book in an optician's appointment, before he uncanned that wriggling mass of worms. Suggesting the overly-wound redhead might be going myopic was Stan's job, not his.

Kenny sighed, leaning back against the plush green cushion, absently squinting at a flickering, ancient clip, some black and white short, a segment of film a panel of "experts" were supposedly discussing. Kyle could be pretty lousy company sometimes, especially when he was pissed off and self-absorbed. Granted, he could be great company sometimes, he could be brilliant and compassionate and clever and fun, when he was happy and healthy and everything was doolally wonderful, but it all depended. You took the good with the bad when it came to him. When it came to Stan, too. And himself, Kenny supposed. You take the good with the bad when it comes to everyone. You just have to hope, that in the end, the good outweighs the bad.

Kyle was sort of a housecat. Obviously independent, obviously a tad overindulged. He just sort of prowled about his territory, sleeping, working, eating, doing whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted. Yet Kenny knew that despite all these standoffish illusions, Kyle needed love. He thrived when cosseted, when loved and protected, when he felt safe and secure and _wanted_. He didn't do well on his own. He'd never done well on his own. Generally, he tended to do stupid things when left on his own.

Stan was a dog, Kenny thought. He was a pussy, but he was a dogish pussy. A pussy of a dog. A bitch, but not in the way Kyle was a bitch. A bitch in the way a neutered Labrador is a bitch. Stan was a routine, excitable, bounding. He was vocal about his affections, licking and nuzzling, all extroverted emotions, barking and happy and easy to please. Above all that though, Stan was loyal, fiercely, determinedly loyal; he protected Kyle, their life, their home, with a dangerous vigour. Even when Kyle acted stupid, even when Kyle had brought it upon himself, he still reacted. He still protected. When anything threatened Kyle, threatened their domesticity, their happiness, their stupid hipster townhouse, Stan would react.

He'd taken over from Mrs. Broflovski in that respect.

That's why it made no sense, not really. Stan wouldn't ogle at other people, for the simple reason he had no need to. He just didn't. He never had. Or at least, he'd never been caught before. Kyle was frowning again, but not at the TV this time. The adverts had come on, and he was ignoring them. Instead, he was frowning up at the ceiling, his head tilted back, his pale neck, his chin, his slightly pronounced Adams apple, making a rather appealing silhouette. He was obviously still brooding, obviously still winding himself up. Winding himself up over the Stan thing. The stupid Stan thing, the act that seemed so little, so insignificant, yet meant so much. So, so fucking much. A glance, a look. Kyle was turning himself inside out over a _look_.

Leaning back on the sofa, Kenny sighed. This is why Kyle shouldn't be given time off work, this is why he shouldn't be allowed to stay home alone. Without the challenge of… Well, without the challenge of whatever-the-fuck it was Kyle did for a living (no-one had ever figured out exactly what it _was_ he did, Kenny tended to zone out the minute Kyle began to mention coding) he'd just work himself up over nothing. He'd always done it, he'd always obsessed over the littlest, stupidest issues. He never let anything go. He needed a distraction. He always needed a distraction.

Tiling his head towards Kyle, Kenny bit his lip. "Look, if this is really upsetting you, come running with me tomorrow. It'll make you feel better, what with all the endorphins and adrenaline and shit."

"Fuck _that_. Only _douchebags_ go _running_."

Kenny Glowered at him, jerking his head back. "Well then, just spend all day curled up in your pathetic, fat-arsed little ball! _Because that's not douchey at all_!"

Kyle's face fell. "You think I'm _fat_?"

"I was being _facetious_."

"Oh God, you think I'm _fat_!"

"No, I don't!"

"_You just called me fat_!

"You're not fat." Kyle was glaring at him, clearly unimpressed. "You're _not _Kyle. I mean" Kenny cleared his throat delicately, running his hand through his hair "granted, you're not, like, _skinny _or anything, but I wouldn't ever call you fat, no. I mean, Cartman's _fat_, you're just, well," Kenny made an abstract, wavering hand gesture "_sturdy_."

"Oh, well, thanks! I'm "sturdy"! _Because that makes me feel so much better_!" Kyle couldn't have looked more hurt if Kenny had simultaneously condoned the Nazi regime, sympathised with Palestine, and announced he was joining Hezbollah. Kenny sighed. If this was the sort of shit Kyle was getting himself wound up over now, a reunion with Cartman was _long_, _long_ overdue.


	3. Creepy Colourless Cotton Candy

By the time Stan got home, Kenny was long gone, and Kyle was lying on his stomach, fast asleep, half-curled up into an awkward ballish shape on the sofa. The mixture of forest green upholstery, quickly fading sunlight, pale skin and wiry, frizzy red hair was vaguely pre-Raphaelite, in a bastardised, pseudo sort of way. Stan couldn't help but smile. He was just glad to be home. It'd been a long day. A bitch of a day. A bitch of a week, really.

Discarding his briefcase by the doorway, Stan perched down on one of the armrests, frowning absently as he fidgeted with his suit, glancing down at the curled up Kyle on the seat cushions next to him. Stan'd always found there was something immensely reassuring in watching Kyle sleep. Something immensely familiar. The faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his ribs brushed against his cotton lounge shirt, up, down, inhale and exhale, the slight snoring noises he made, the way he was drooling unapologetically on a scatter cushion, it was all so familiar. Stan found everything about Kyle so, so familiar.

Reaching down, he lightly traced a faint, pale scar that marked Kyle's eyebrow. A familiar scar, a familiar mark. He knew them all. He'd traced them all. Kyle was mapped with scars, scars from a kidney transplant, chickenpox scars, scars from Carpel tunnel release surgery, scars from fights, scars from experimental Apple procedures. Scars from everything. Life hadn't played fair with him, that much Stan knew. But then, life had really played fair with anyone Stan knew. Life just didn't believe in fair play. Neither did Cartman.

Stan sighed, gently brushing his fingertips across Kyle's cheek. He felt like he should have done something, brought something. Made a romantic gesture. Gifts, sugar-free chocolate. A card. A card with a poem, a card with a list. He wasn't quite sure what someone was supposed to do when their partner had been in a car accident. He probably still had time to compose a poem before Kyle woke up, but he doubted Kyle would appreciate it. Kyle had always been somewhat cynical when it came to Stan's lyrical. Still, maybe he should have taken the day off, stayed home, nursed him. Sat with him, amused him. His boss would have killed him though. His boss would have _fired_ him

He could write a list. He could write _the _list. There seemed to be some ingrained relationship obligation to list the one hundred reasons you love your partner, to write all these stupid familiarities down. So far, Stan had made a pointed effort to avoid this cliché, carefully steering Kyle away from the idea any time it threatened to make an appearance. It wasn't that he couldn't do it. He could quite easily list a hundred reasons he loved Kyle, hell, he could probably list a thousand reasons he loved Kyle. They just weren't the sort of reasons Kyle would appreciate. He loved the sort of things Kyle did but tried to pretend he didn't, like how he frowned at the TV, like how he snorted in his sleep. Like the way he stood when he was pissed, legs squared, hips thrust forward, like he was about to challenge you to a pissing competition, or a duel, or a dance-off, or some equally pointless combination of all three he would undoubtedly loose anyway. He loved how angry Kyle got, how easy it was to wind him up, the way he sulked like a menstruating pre-teen when he didn't get what he wanted. He loved how moral he was, how pompous he could act, how even though he did stupid things sometimes, he was never cruel. There was nothing cruel about Kyle. Stupid, yes, but never malicious.

And as much as it scared him, the volatile, violent aspect of their relationship, he loved the fact that if he ever told Kyle any of this, ever wrote him _this_ list, the real list rather then the stupid overused clichés everyone usually used, Kyle would, most probably, knee him square in the crotch. Because that's just what Kyle did. It's just the way he was.

Stan just frowned, thinking to himself, absently toying with a stand of Kyle's hair, gently straightening out the kinks, pulling it smooth, before letting it bounce back, curl back up, rejoin its wiry companions. They'd never really done any of that clichéd, coupley shit. Sure, they brought each other cards and gifts, they had their sickly romantic moments, their weekends away, their expensive dinners out. San Francisco, all that jazz. But it was proportionally more organic humping and quick dark corner fumbles, more sex against public bathroom walls and sneaking off to hidden places and unlocked store cupboards then it was rose petals and candles, champagne and silk. Sex with Kyle was already an event enough; Stan really didn't think it needed decorating.

After a few minutes, Kyle woke up, shifting slightly, inadvertently pulling his hair out of Stan's fingers. Stan just blinked, watching him murmur to himself, watching him blink the sleep out his eyes.

"Dude," Kyle was still blinking, still thick with sleep. He lifted his head off the scatter cushion, leaving behind a neat little patch of drool, sliver and still damp. "You're really late."

"I know. I'm sorry. Busy day."

"Again?"

"Again."

Kyle groaned, pulling himself upright, kneeling on the couch, readjusting his t-shirt. Pulling it down. It had ridden up in his sleep, casually exposing a few inches of hip and stomach. Stan bit his lip. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really." Kyle blinked, rubbing his ribs, frowning slightly. He was aching slightly, the bruises where his seatbelt had been, his lower ribs. Perhaps he shouldn't have been lying like that. Perhaps Kenny had been right. "I think I've been asleep too long."

"You should have just stayed in bed. You should be resting anyway."

"Kenny came over. We watched TV."

"Sounds fun."

"It really wasn't. There are too many idiots on TV. And Kenny's a dick."

"At least you kept yourself amused."

Kyle made some noncommittal, throaty sound, stretching a kink out of his shoulder. Smiling slightly, Stan shifted off the couches arm, shifting onto the seat next to Kyle, the seat he'd just been curled up in. It was still warm, the mix of human heat and dying sunlight.

"My mom called. I didn't tell her about the accident. I didn't want to worry her. It's their 30th wedding anniversary next week. They're having a party. We have to go."

Pulling a face, Stan looked away. "Why? Can't we just send them some flowers or something? A nice bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates?"

"No! Dude, just buck up and come with. Thirty years is a long time you know. It's not something to be sniffed at."

"We'll last longer."

"We will?"

"Yup, we will. We'll last fifty. We'll a hundred."

Kyle sighed sadly, dropping his gaze. "Will we? Will you still love me when I'm old and bald and wrinkly?"

Stan frowned, pressing a kiss against the side of Kyle's head. "Why bald?"

"My dad's bald. Knowing my luck, I bald too."

"I doubt it." Stan slipped his fingers into the unkempt mess of twists and curls, gently gripping a wiry fistful, gently pulling, gently tugging Kyle's head back. Kyle made a choked, protesting mewl, trying to pull away, but Stan just smiled. "You've inherited your mother's _puff_. I really don't think it's going anywhere."

"Well whatever. Will you still love me when I'm old and wrinkly and _puffy_ then?"

"I'll _adore_ you when you're old and wrinkly and puffy Ky. I just can't _wait_ until you start going grey; you'll look like a fucking Q-tip! Or that creepy colourless cotton candy. Or Doctor Emmett Brown or something. It'll be _hilarious_!"

"_I hate you_."

Stan's lip quirked. "Except you don't."

"No" Kyle stretched slightly, resting an elbow on Stan's shoulder, "I don't."

Smiling gently, Stan laced an arm round Kyle's hips, rucking up the heavy cotton that covered them. The plaid lounge trousers he was wearing had a thick, navy drawstring around the waist, a flat, woven ribbon. Stan found there was something immensely pleasing about that drawstring, but he wasn't quite sure what. It just made him happy. He just liked it.

Sighing sadly, Kyle slipped his arms round Stan's neck, relaxing against him. Chest to chest, Kyle was sort of half sitting on Stan's lap, half kneeling on the couch. It was a slightly awkward, but pleasing, none the less. Grinning against him, Stan pressed a kiss against his shoulder, looping his own arms round Kyle's back.

"You're so adorable when you're tired, you know?"

Kyle just sighed, shutting his eyes shifting slightly, relaxing against Stan. Relaxing into him. The warmth, the weight, the shapes he made, the lines and curves, the friction, the way he was shifting, the way he smelled of soap and cleanness and sweat and human and laundry detergent and Kyle. It was exciting. Kyle was _always_ exciting.

Slightly too exiting, sometimes. Stan shifted, pulling back slightly. "Sorry."

"Stan, I've woken up with your dick jammed against my arse nearly every day for the past ten years. I'm pretty fucking used to it now."

"Well it's not my fault my dick has a homing instinct. He just knows where he wants to be."

"What? So it's just force of habit now? I'm just your worn-out old dick-warmer or something?"

"Trust me Ky, there's nothing remotely worn-out about you."

"Well that's reassuring."

Stan just smiled, driving his face against Kyle's chest.

* * *

><p>AN – Pointless chapter is completely pointless. And ohgod, I think my Uni is trying to kill me. So much work.


	4. Cheap Rhymes and Rifts

Stan was long gone by the time Kyle woke up the next morning. He had a dim recollection of being woken up some hours ago, a misty, warmed memory of being gently shaken by the shoulder, being offered some breakfast, being given a cuddle, a kiss, but he wasn't certain whether it had been a dream or not. Stan was never usually so nice to him in the mornings, and he often found himself dreaming of things that seemed real but hadn't actually happened. In fact, he often wondered whether the things that he thought had really happened were actually dreams. Some flight of fancy he'd been sure was happening, nothing but barely conscious sounds and actions rearranging themselves in his mind, convincing him they were real, replacing the actual reality. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he'd always been crazy. Maybe it was all just one big lie.

Either way, he was dimly aware of having declined Stan's offer with a few spat out curses and choice insults, before rolling over and falling straight back to sleep. Which was a pretty dickish thing for him to do, had he actually done it, but he _had_ just been woken up. He was never all that amenable in the mornings. Stan knew that. Which might explain why Stan was never all that nice to him. Because he was never all that nice to Stan.

Exhaling, Kyle stood up, wrapping himself in the duvet as he padded out the bedroom, padded to the bathroom, padded into the living room, padded over to the ugly green sofa. He wanted to go back to work now. He'd had enough of sick leave. An e-mail he'd received from his boss had told him to take a week, take two, take longer then that if he felt he needed to. Take the however many weeks it would take them to fix his car, for his bruises to fade, for the friction burns to heal. For his ribs to stop aching. Take the however many months, even. If they could fix it, that is. The back end of his Toyota was so damaged, so crushed, so fucked up, it might be better, cheaper, to just replace it. Still, that wasn't really up to him, it was the insurance companies prerogative. They might try to fix it, they might just send him a cheque and wish him the best.

Kyle sighed, rubbing his face. All the insurance shit, all the papers, all the phone calls. He sort wondered whether he should just buck it up and tell his parents; sure, his mom would dive him insane with her cloying, coddling worry, but at least his dad would sort the insurance out for him. His dad might even sort a hire car out for him. Sort how Kyle was supposed to get around now he didn't have his car any more. His dad was good with forms and papers, good with big companies, good at working out deals, getting bargains. He was good with things like that.

Kyle pursed his lips. It depressed him that his job seemed so keen to ward him away. Sure, they could just be being nice or whatever, they could just be looking out for him, but they seemed so _eager_, so _sure_, so _adamant _he took a week, took two, took time to "recover" himself. He'd always thought he was fairly good at his job, fairly good at doing what he did, but now he wasn't so sure. He wasn't so sure why they were so gung-ho about his sick leave, why they were so amenable about his time off. Maybe he was actually really awful at coding. Maybe all his work was really actually shit. Maybe they all just hated him. Maybe they were all desperately hoping, desperately waiting for a chance to fire him. He was doubting his skills. He was doubting his eyesight. He was doubting himself. He was doubting Stan. He was doubting Stan's fidelity. He was doubting everything recently.

Blinking slightly, Kyle clutched the duvet across his chest, clicking on the TV, desperate to distract himself. He thought about reading, but he wasn't in the mood. Too jumpy, too distracted. He thought about doing something on the computer, editing the grammar on Wikipedia, designing a blog, doing some work, asking them to send something down, but the PC just depressed him. It just reminded him of his doubts. He wanted Stan to be here, he wanted Stan to be keeping him company, he wanted Stan to amused him, entertain him, he wanted to do something, go out, go to the movies, go for a coffee. Hell, he'd even go on one of Stan's precious _walks_. But Stan was too busy doing what Stan did, writing cheap rhymes and rifts, concocting those pointless, repetitive jingles. All he had was the TV. The stupid, idiotic TV.

For several hours Kyle watched poor people scream at each other from across a plywood stage. Missing teeth, incomprehensible accents, slurred words, peroxide hair. Awful, streaky highlights. Trailer trash, bad clothes. Slutty, whoreish. They all looked like Cartman in drag; lumpy, hideous beings, so foreign, so removed from Kyle's nice little townhouse in their steadily gentrifying area of Denver, so removed from their nice little life. Their nice, new life. So far away from all that shit that happened in South Park, all that shit that _was _South Park. It was only an hour's drive away, but that was far enough. Sixty miles was all it took.

Kyle frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. They all sounded like Cartman too. Incorrect, idiotic points, wrong ideals, negative IQ's. But they screamed with such conviction, like they actually believed the baby was his, they really believed they hadn't been cheating, like they really believed themselves, their own lies. Enough lies, enough conviction, people begin to believe themselves.

It was only after some pointless peroxide woman bounded on screen and began toting the health benefits of drinking urine that Kyle gave in. Making some angry, Yiddish growl, he angrily slammed down a button on the remote, silencing the bounding, piss drinking women, before twisting round, grabbing up the receiver, angrily jabbing in Kenny's number. Not even another afternoon of being insulted could be as bad as watching some idiotic woman downing her own piss.

xxx

xxx

xxx

"I swear to God since you started taking it up the arse your faggotry has risen threefold."

Kyle blinked, shifting slightly. He was still wrapped in the duvet, still occupying the couch, still in his nightclothes, still curled up. Still feeling sorry for himself. Even he had to admit he was being vaguely pathetic. But hey, he'd recently been injured. He was upset, he was hurt, and he was depressed. Stan was ogling other people, Stan was ogling _women_. He had every right to be pathetic. He was _miserable_.

"Dude, I don't just take it up the arse, yeah? I give it up the arse too. Fuck, we're not some heteronormative cliché. We mix it up occasionally."

"For some reason the idea of you pinning Stan seems vaguely blasphemous. I like to believe you just take it up the arse, it makes everything easier for me."

"Why? Does overfeminising me make it easier to understand your gay little high school crush?"

"No! Fuck, you're hardly a dainty little _femme_ Kyle. But you _are_ kind of girly."

"I am _not_ girly."

"Except you are. You're bitchy, whiney and sort of…" Kenny motioned vaguely with his hands. "Fluffy."

"I'm fluffy?"

"You're fluffy."

"Like a _dog_, you mean?"

"No!"

"Then what? You mean like a bimbo or something? A marshmallow? A cloud? Fucking _what_? How the _fuck _am I fluffy? No good things are _ever _fluffy!"

"Like a-like a… Dude, you're just fucking _fluffy_! Don't ask me to define it! You _are _it. You're just _fluffy_."

Kyle gave him some incomprehensible glare, mouth open, eyes narrowed. "I'm _fluffy_. Christ, you called me fat yesterday, and today I'm _fluffy_. God, you're a real _dick_, you know. Is it really _that _hard for you to just be _nice_ to me?"

"I don't _mean_ it like that! Stop being so _precious_."

Kyle just bit the inside of his lip, tilting his head away. He was looking for a fight. He was looking to act like a dick. As bad as it seemed, he wanted to infect others with his misery. "Well, I don't do it all that often, but I do fuck Stan in the ass. So cram it up _yours_ and shut the fuck up!"

Kenny frowned slightly, crossing his arms across his chest as he lent his head back against the sofa cushion. He knew he should have given an excuse, lied, pretended like he couldn't come over. Kyle was in a fowl mood recently. But Kyle was also on his own recently. Leaving a pissed off Kyle alone was never a wise idea. Kenny had known that for years. "Why don't you do it often? Is it because he's taller then you? Is it because he's, er, _bigger_ then you, if you get what I mean?"

"Assume I always get what you mean. You're not renowned for your _subtlety_ Ken." Kyle huffed, crossing his arms. He was clearly unimpressed with his conversation. Kenny had clearly ticked him off. Ticked him off more then he had been already, which was some feat. "And n_o_. He just… He just has more stamina is all. He's better at it."

"Awwh, does little Kylie shoot early?"

"_No_! Fuck you Kenny. Stop being such a fucking _ass_. I shoot just fine. It's just Stan has the stamina of an Olympic marathon runner." A small, ghost of a smile quirked the corner of Kyle's lips, so out of place with the rest of his huffy demeanour. "It's actually kind of brilliant."

"I think I need to vomit now."

"You brought it upon yourself."

Kenny sighed, shutting his eyes against the afternoon sun. He was still wearing his coat, he was still protesting their pointless coat floor. He'd continue protesting their pointless coat floor until the day he died. He hated their pointless coat floor. Nevertheless, the excess fabric was smothering him slightly, leaving him slightly too warm, making him feel sort of dizzy. Kyle had the central heating on, and the day was unseasonably sunny. It wasn't a good combination. Nevetheless he wasn't about to concede his point. He wasn't about to use their superfluous coat floor.

"Why did you call me anyway? You go weeks without seeing me, and now you want me twice in two days? It's a bit needy, Kyle. I have my own life too, you know."

"Fuck you. I just wanted some company. I'm _bored_."

"Buy a cat."

Kyle shuddered. Cat's always reminded him of Cartman. As cute as they may be, every time he saw one, he always, always thought of Cartman. Well, Cartman or his dads cheesing problem. "_No_."

"Buy a dog, then."

Kyle pulled a face. "Stan wants to get a dog. One of those big, lumbering ones."

"So? Get a dog then. Fuck, at least it'd give you something to _talk_ to."

"_No_. All that _walking_ and all that _mess_. Way too difficult."

"Oh, stop being stupid. Lots of people have dogs, they're not that _bad_."

"Yeah? Well lots of people have ugly houses. I don't want some drooling, bounding _thing_ destroying our house, scratching my tables, chewing on my furniture! I _like _my furniture, _as is_, thank you!"

"Oh, lord _forbid _anything harm your _lovely_ forest green couch! It's so _classy_, after all!" Kenny snarked it out, waving his arms about in an overly dramatic gesture as his did.

"Hey! Shut up! I like this sofa! It's a _nice _sofa!" Kyle lied. He hated the sofa. He'd regretted buying it almost immediately. It was hideous, he knew that. But he wasn't about to admit it. Especially not to Kenny. Especially not when Kenny was being a dick.

Kenny just quirked his lip, looking away. "Whatever you say Kyle. Whatever you say."

They fell silent, Kyle lost in pathetic, brooding thought, Kenny rubbing his face, absently watching him. Watching him think. It was eerily silent in the house, nothing but ticking, ticking clocks, the street sounds, cars, the road, people. Kenny wondered if he should turn on the TV, turn on a radio, start cooking something to eat. Bang some pots and pans about. Start singing to himself. His house was never silent. There was always something making a noise, Powder walking about, Powder talking, Powder on the phone, his parents, her parents, the TV, the radio, Powder's screechingly awful, yet vaguely engaging soaps. The neighbours, screaming at each other, incomprehensible, slurring their words. There was always noise, there was always _something_.

Not here though. It was quiet here. This was a _nice_ neighbourhood, after all.

After a minute, Kenny cleared his throat, casually adjusting his coat, casually pulling the fabric off his chest. Desperately trying to cool himself down. "So, what do you want to do?"

Kyle blinked. He was depressing himself, his doubts, his whatevers. He was overthinking things. He was always, always overthinking things. He wanted his car back. He wanted Stan. He wanted his burns to be gone. He wanted his job to need him, like Stan's job needed _Stan_. He needed to get out the house. He was driving himself _crazy_ locked up in here. He needed to get some air.

Clearing his throat, Kyle frowned slightly, glaring at the blank TV screen. "Can we… Can we go for that run?"


	5. Willingly Darling

The house was empty when Stan got home. Kenny's truck was blocking the entirety of the driveway, parked so badly it must have been intentional. A dick move. Stan rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath, pulling a face as he parked up on the street. It was either that, or cut across the corner of the front garden. And if Kyle caught him driving over the flowerbeds again, he'd throw a conniption. Avoiding _that_ wrath was worth just tucking in the wing mirror and risking a ding in the door panel.

It always unnerved him when he came back to an empty house. Kyle finished work before him, long before him, and was always already fannying about when Stan got home. Stan would come in to find him lounging on the sofa, reading a book, making himself something to eat, preparing dinner, taking a nap, glaring at the TV, pretty doing whatever the fuck he wanted. Just existing. A warm body in a cold house. Some fluffy, belligerent, wriggling, complaining _thing_ to look forward to coming home to. An angry ginger tomcat.

But not today. Today was just the cold house. Today he was out somewhere, with Kenny, doing something. Something stupid, probably. Something that might well end up getting him in trouble, or hurt, or in one of those outlandish, dangerous situations Kyle always seemed to find himself in. Usually due to his own kindness, his misplaced faith in humanity, his fucking stupid naïveté. Frowning slightly, Stan kicked off his shoes, hanging up is coat nearly on the hooks that lined the coat floor, before stomping heavily up the stairs. Knowing Kyle was safe at home and not, you know, throwing himself off buildings with cardboard wings or going into cardiac arrest or getting in car crashes or getting himself kidnapped by Apple or _whatever_, well, it had been sort of reassuring. It was pretty much the _only_ benefit of his accident. As much as he might want to, Stan knew it would have been immoral (and impossible) to lash Kyle within the house, even of only for this week. But having him piss off somewhere with a barely sober redneck without even bothered to leave a note or any indication of where they were or when they'd be home was hardly encouraging. It was fairly selfish. And stupid. It was pretty typical of them both.

Exhaling, Stan pulled a disorganised wedge of paper out his briefcase, shaking off his suit jacket, sitting down on the ugly green sofa. He might as well try getting some more work done whilst it was quiet, whilst the house was empty. Hell, if he'd known Kyle was out, he'd have stayed later at the office.

It was nearly an hour before they came back. The sun was just beginning to set, casting hazy orange shadows across the street when Kenny bounded through the front door, bounded up the staircase, and bounded into the living room, leaving Kyle to wheeze up after him. Stan was still sitting on the forest green sofa, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, a frown marring his face. He was toying with a fairly garish gold pen (a graduation gift from his mother) with one hand, whilst clutching a sheet of paper in the other. He was glaring at the crinkled sheet and scribbled words as though they marked a sloppy invitation to his mother's funeral or something, his expression wholly unipressed, and just a little bit angry.

He glanced up at Kyle, frowned, glanced back down, froze, and did a double take.

"What in hells name are you _doing_?"

"Oh, I'm curing cancer! What the _fuck_ does it look like I'm doing?"

"I honestly don't have a clue…" He narrowed his eyes. "Step aerobics?"

"No! I went for a _fucking _run!"

"Oh." Stan paused for a second, innocently fidgeting with his pen, absently clicking the top, clicking it in the way that Kyle always found painfully irritating. Kyle did not look a happy bunny. Kyle really, really, did not look a happy bunny. He was flushed and flustered, sweaty, and had an expression akin to a natural disaster. Stan innocently bit his lip. "Did you enjoy it?"

"I hated every fucking moment of it. I hate my life. _I want to die_."

"Awh, don't hyperbole. I'm sure it wasn't that bad. Besides, it's nice to see you actually got _dressed_ for the first time in two days. Even if you are wearing…" Stan trailed off, gesturing meekly at the painfully mismatched clashing colours and patters that made up Kyle's makeshift running clothes. He wasn't quite sure what Kyle was wearing. He wasn't quite sure what Kyle had been attempting to wear. It looked to be a mixture of things dragged from the back of the closet, pyjamas, and old holiday clothes. A hideous, paint splattered t-shirt, a garish pair of (luridly neon) Bermuda shorts, teamed with the slightly too small track top he used to wear when he'd played basketball in collage. It really wasn't a pretty combination. Kyle blinked, glaring at him. Stan lowered his eyebrows, ignored him, narrowing his eyes at the faded handprints on Kyle's chest, his handprints, trying to remember what exactly it _was_ they had painted such a hideous lilac.

After a while, he gave up, glancing up with a thin, wry smile. Kyle's painfully liberal attitude regarding fashion always amazed him. "You look _lovely_ sweetheart."

Kyle pursed his lips, crossing his arms, squaring his stance. The challenging stance, the pissing contest stance. "Oh, _blow me_."

Stan smiled, properly this time, placing his sheet of paper face down on the tabletop, pulling himself to his feet as he reached out, causally netting Kyle, casually pulling him closer. Casually ignoring his protests. "Willingly darling."

"Shit Stan, don't! I'm all sweaty."

"Fuck Kyle, I've seen you sweaty before. I fucking _like _you sweaty. Sweaty generally means I've done a good _job_."

"I know, but-"

"Hush."

And Stan was kissing him, strong and wet, one hand guiding Kyle's head, furrowing its way into the sweaty, damp curls, the other pressed firmly against his back, gripping at the rutty old t-shirt, furrowing it's way under the hem. Kenny frowned, averting his gaze, absently warming down his calves. This really didn't seem like a relationship that was in trouble.

After a few minutes, Kyle pulled away, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I'm going to take a shower."

"But I'm enjoying myself."

"You can enjoy yourself after I've showered." Kyle rubbed his side, stepping back. "Start dinner, yeah? I'm fucking _starving_."

"Yes, _your highness_."

"Oh, _shut up _Stan! My ribs fucking _hurt_. Fuck _running_!"

With that Kyle exited, frowning into nothingness, undressing as he went. Petulantly discarding his running clothes in messy little piles on the staircase. Stan watched his half-nude ascent with a slight smile, causally leaning on the doorframe. Kenny just exhaled, glancing up, causally stretching out his arms. He hadn't bothered to change into a hideous running outfit, he'd just worn his clothes. Everything he owned was pretty worn down anyway, so it's not like it actually _mattered_ what he chose to sweat in. He supposed Kyle would have leant him a spare t-shirt if he'd asked, hell, he could have lent him some shorts and trainers too. However, after seeing Kyle's horrendous getup, Kenny had decided against asking.

He'd taken off his coat though. He'd left it abandoned conspicuously in Stan and Kyle's kitchen, spread out across their shiny, clean counter. A further coat-y little protest of their stupid pointless coat floor. Their superfluous coat floor.

The shower started humming. Stan sighed, turning away from the doorway, sitting back on the couch, scooping the mound of papers off the coffee table, the sheet music, the notes, the letters, ramming them unceremoniously into his briefcase. Kenny quirked his lip, absently sitting down next to him. Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder. Kenny in a sweaty, worn out pair of jeans, a faded t-shirt, his falling apart pair of shoes. Stan in his immaculate slate shirt, sleeves rolled up, top button undone, oh so _causally_. Stan in his tailored, pinstriped trousers, his neat, argyle tie. His shiny, silver tie clip. Kenny bit his lip, looking away. Two separate worlds. Two separate lives. A universe apart.

Still, he hadn't expected it to be much fun, running with Kyle. He'd imagined the whole affair would have been a bit like forcefully dragging a donkey down the road. But it'd ended up having its perks. Sure, Kyle whined like a bitch from start to finish, sure, he dragged his feet and complained, all hurry up and wait, but during the times they _had _run, Kenny had found himself really going for it, really sprinting as he tried to put as much distance between him and Kyle as possible. As he tried to make it look like they weren't together. He'd decided he'd rather strangers think he was some thief fleeing a crime then think he actually _knew_ the hideously dressed Richard Simmons interpreter bounding along behind him.

Stan frowned, casually picking at his fingernails. "I'm amazed you got him to go for a run. I can barely drag him out for a _walk_. He hisses like an agoraphobic cat every time I try."

"I think he's suffering from cabin fever. I could have suggested we go jump of a bridge and he'd have gone along with it."

Stan pulled a face, chewing the inside of his cheek. He knew Kyle was miserable left home alone, no car, no company. No company except Kenny, that was. Stan wasn't sure if Kenny really counted as valid company. He was pretty sure Kenny just made things worse. "I know. But hey, he'll be back at work soon. He'll be back ranting about clients and HTML and a whole load of other shit I don't understand before you know it. Before _I _know it. He should just enjoy it. Enjoy his paid vacation. I know I would."

"Yeah, well _you're_ not wound tighter then a two dollar Rolex." Kenny exhaled loudly. "Kyle finds it hard to enjoy things other people make him do, no matter how nice. If it's not done under his own volition, he won't enjoy it. Hell, even if it _is_ done under his own volition, chances are he _still_ won't enjoy it. You should have heard him complain today. He's just like his fucking _mother_, you know?"

Stan shuddered, turning his face away. He never liked it when people compared Kyle to his mother. Partly because Kyle was nowhere near that batshit insane, not yet anyway, partly because Kyle's hair was nowhere near that monstrous. Partly because Kyle wasn't a fucking _woman_. But mostly because he didn't like to be reminded of their similarities. Shrill, complaining, short. Same nose. Same temperament. Some things just hit that bit too close for comfort. The last think Stan wanted to see when he looked at the person he was fucking was a shadow of Mrs. Broflovski.

"Thanks for that, yeah. But hey, you know him. Happiness in misery, all that jazz."

Kenny frowned; "I thought it was 'misery loves complany?'"

Stan just shrugged, casually smoothing out a crease in his trousers. Kenny sighed, leaning back on the sofa, his mildly sweaty back pressing against the green upholstery. Kyle was acting miserable lately. Very miserable. He'd been complaining, more then usual. Kyle had been complaining about Stan. Kyle had been worrying about Stan. Kyle had been worrying about the whole Stan thing. Kyle complained when he was worried. Kyle was miserable when he worried.

Miserable Kyle made pretty lousy company.

"Hey, Stan, do you ever wank off to other people?"

"You're such a classy conversationalist Kenny. I really don't understand why you're not invited to more dinner parties. Why, you're a modern day Dorothy Parker."

"I'm serious dude. Do you?"

Stan lent forward. He was frowning, absently running his fingers across a gouge in the coffee table. A gouge Kenny was pretty damn certain he'd caused. Not that he was about to admit to it, of course. "I'm not going to lie, I mean, I've _tried_."

"You've _tried_? What the fuck do you mean you've _tired_? How the fuck do you _try_?"

"I've… I've _tried_. But my mind just sort of wanders, and I end up thinking about stupid things, unsexy things, about what I need to pick up from the shops, about what I'm going to make for dinner, about deadlines and obligations and birthdays and errands. About work. About anything and everything. And I always end up thinking of Kyle, and once I've thought about Kyle, I just keep on thinking about Kyle, and the whole thing's rendered redundant. What's the point of cumming to thoughts of Kyle when I can just wait for him to stop pouncing about and cum _in_ Kyle."

Kenny was narrowing his eyes at him. "Seriously? You have time to plan your grocery shop and work schedule whilst _masturbating_? Christ, how long does it fucking take you?"

"I dunno, I don't _time _it. It depends, you know?"

Kenny just shook his head, pulling a face. "Christ. Kyle was right about your fucking stamina."

"Bad choice of curses there. Slightly too literal." The hum of the shower had stopped. Stan was standing up, absently brushing the creases out of his trousers. He needed to start dinner.

Kenny quirked his eyebrow. "No, that was intentional."

"Of course it was. _Witty_. Are you staying for dinner?"

"No. I've got to get back. I'm due at work in a couple of hours."

"Suit yourself."


	6. Macaroni Cheese Affair

"You know, usually when people say they're leaving, they actually, you know, _leave_."

Kenny exhaled, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter, casually peering over Stan's forearm, casually peering into Stan's pan. Casually invading Stan's space. Stan glared at him, trying to elbow him out the way, but Kenny ignored him. Even to his unrefined, white-trash pallet, Stan's cooking was painfully uninspiring. A pretty tedious macaroni cheese-esque affair, depressing and glutinous, sad and _yellow_. He'd pointedly refused to take after his dad in the whole cookery, passion department. His notable lack of culinary skills seemed almost a pointed rebellion.

"Seriously, and I mean seriously, I'm not actually cooking you anything. If you intend on staying for dinner, fucking tell me _now _so I can put you some in."

"I'm _not_ staying for dinner." Kenny thanked God for that small mercy.

Stan frowned into his pan, poking the sauce with a spatula. He hated cooking. "Then why are you still _here_?"

"I was just getting my _coat_."

"And…"

"And… And I don't what to…" Kenny sighed, lowering his head. "I don't really want to go home."

"Then why the fuck didn't you just stay for dinner? I would have willingly _cooked _you something!"

"I don't _want _you to cook me anything!"

"Why?"

"Because you _can't _cook!"

Stan recoiled slightly. He knew he couldn't cook. He'd never pretended he could. But knowing you can't do something and being told you can't do something are two entirely different games. "Well gee! I'm sorry I can't compete with your _gourmet_ meals of Pop-Tarts and Hamburger Helper Gordon-_fucking _-Ramsey!"

"Oh, don't get butthurt. I'm not _trying_ to insult you!"

"Then what _are _you trying to do?"

"I… I…" Kenny sighed. "_Powder's pregnant_, Stan!"

Stan chocked on his own spit, jerking his head round. Dropping the spatula on the tiles. "Holy Christ, that was a bit of a non sequtor!" Kenny just blinked, shaking his head slightly, lowering his gaze back to the pans. Pregnancy was supposed to be good news, at least, it had been with all the others. All the ones that had happened after graduation, that is. But there was something in his voice, something dark and unhappy. Stan gaped slightly. "Uh, congratulations, I guess?"

"I guess. It… It could have come at a better time, you know? Powder's not working. I'm barely working. The recession. The _shack_. The fact that life's one, long, assfucking _bitch_." Kenny sighed, kneading his eyes with the palms of his hands. He was getting too hot again, in his coat, in the kitchen. Standing over the stove, over Stan's lumpy attempt at a cheese sauce and gradually overcooking pasta. "Sorry to just drop it on you out of the blue, but I just needed to _tell_ someone. I have no idea… I just… I just… I guess I just always hoped my kids… I hoped they'd grow up on the other side of the tracks, the nice side. _Your _side of the tracks. I guess I just hoped it'd be different. But no. Nothing ever is. Same stage, different actors."

Stan pursed his lips, bending down and picking up the spatula. For a moment he considered just using it again, but he wasn't quite sure when the floor had last been washed. Too long ago, probably. Too long ago, definitely. They weren't so great at doing all that necessary household stuff sometimes. Exhaling, he dumped it in the sink, pulling a wooden spoon out of a draw.

"Things can be different Kenny. They can be as different as you make them."

"Things are never different Stanley. Not ever."

"They _can_ be."

"Whatever. You keep believing that if it makes you happy. Life is a self-fulfilling prophecy, a repetitive circle. Again and again and again. Drugs, alcohol. Fucked up shit. But hey," he clapped his hands together, pulling a face "when you have sex, these things can happen. You just gotta live with it, try make the best of it. You know how it is."

Stan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip quirking down slightly. Quirking down sadly. "Not really, no."

"Well, no, I guess _you _don't. You know how _it_ is though."

"I guess." Stan frowned. The food was pretty much ready. It'd been pretty much ready for the last five minutes. Now it was becoming pretty damn overdone. "Have you told Kyle yet?"

"I was planning on it. But no, I'm not. I'll wait 'til he's in a better mood. This isn't the sort of thing I want to discuss with him when he's already pissy. He's hardly heading up the Powder fan club as it is."

"Well she did call him stocky that one time."

"Fuck you. You call him stocky _once a week_."

"Yeah, but he knows I don't mean it. Well, I do mean it, he _is_ stocky, but I mean it in the nice way. The good way. The endearment way. The… The 'I love you' way."

Kenny paused for a second, before smirking. "That is so fucking _gay_."

"Oh, _fuck you_!

"It is!"

"You know, I never realised just how much Powder looks like your mother, not until the other week. Not until I saw them together. It's really _fucked up_."

"_You're_ fucked up."

"Not as fucked up as _you_."

"You're fucking your childhood best friend. That's pretty fucked up."

"No it isn't."

"Yes, it is! Besides, Kyle looks like _his_ mother. If I'm fucking _my _mother, _you're_ pretty much just fucking Mrs. B!"

Stan pursed his lips. "_I don't think Kyle looks like anyone, especially not his mother!_"

"He looks like Ronald McDonald maybe. They have the same hair. The same skin tone. And the same fashion sense."

"He'll kill you if he hears you say that."

"Yeah, well at least I didn't call him _stocky_! Oh, Lord forbid!"

Stan snorted, rolling his eyes. "You can be such a _dick_, Oedipus."

"Well, I try." Kenny sighed, rubbing his face with his fingertips. He knew he needed to go home, he knew he needed to get ready for work, he just _knew_. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to face Powder right now, he didn't want to have any baby conversations. He didn't want to hear her squeak about it. He didn't want to have to hesitantly suggest _alternatives_. He didn't want to upset her.

Kenny smiled dryly. "You're fucking your childhood super best friend's _mother_, I've apparently knocked up my own _mother_. Kyle's fucking _you_. I think Craig had a point all those years ago. I don't actually think it _was _South Park, all that shit that happened. All that craziness. I think it actually really _was_ us."

"Don't be stupid."

"Well, it's kinda _true_."

"No it isn't. Kyle _does not _look like his mother. And all that shit that happens in that town _was not _out fault."

"Happened. Since you two left, things have been pretty white bread. No Mecha-Streisand, no aliens, no Kyle doing something stupid. No Apple Inc. No mobs. Well, not many mobs. Hardly any deaths, too."

"Coincidence. Or, more probably, lack of Cartman. Don't forget that fatass left the same time we did."

"Cartman's _not_ fat, he's a fucking earthquake on legs. Calling that gargantuan mass fat is offensive to the word _fat_." Both Stan and Kenny started slightly, twisting round. Kyle had padded in behind them whilst they had been leaning over the stove, mildly hypnotised watching the slimy, lumpy cheese sauce bubble. His hair was still damp, dripping indiscriminately onto the shoulders of his, surprisingly inoffensive, plaid loungewear. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "What are you talking about _that_ centuple bypass for anyway?"

Stan reached out for him, almost automatically, a knee-jerk reaction, his palm open and fingers spread. Kenny cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "We were just talking about the good old days. Reminiscing. About South Park. All those fun times." Fluid lies, fluid _omissions_. So painfully white trash. So painfully necessary. He shot Stan a pointed look, and Stan just sighed, lowering his head.

Kyle rolled his eyes, warily stepping into Stan's grasp, warily letting Stan pull him closer. "Why on earth would you want to reminisce about _that_? Jesus Christ, there are so many nice things in the world you could talk about, why waste breath on history?"

Kenny shrugged. "You gotta talk about _something_. It was either this or yet another discussion about your hideous green sofa."

Kyle pursed his lips, refusing to rise to the bait. Exhaling, he absently allowing himself to be drawn closer to Stan, absently allowed himself to be positioned, hugged, as he absently rested his chin on Stan's shoulder. He frowned at the pans overboiling on the stove. "What are we having?"

"Macaroni cheese."

"Is it edible?"

Stan twisted his lips. "It's _fine_."

Kyle pulled an unimpressed face. The cheese sauce had started separating in front of his very eyes. It was kinda mesmerising, in a creepy, oily, lumpy way. "You and I clearly have different definitions on what 'fine' means."

"_It's fine_."

"Well," Kenny announced, clapping his hands together, backing out into the living room. He tended to make his exit before they started with their pointless, coy bickering. He'd rather face his pregnant wife then have to listen to yet another round of painfully kitsch squabbling. "I'm off."

"Alright." Stan loosened his grip, letting Kyle slip away from him, letting him slip towards the stove. Letting him attempt to salvage the meal. "See you. And…" Stan swallowed, somewhat hesitantly. "Give my best to Powder, I guess."

Kyle raised an eyebrow, shooting Stan a particular look. "And give her _my_ worst."

"Will do Stan. And you're an ass, Broflovski!"

Stan smiled wryly. "He's a damn good ass though; I can assure you of that."

* * *

><p>AN - I just wanted to say thankyouthankyou for reading, I hope c'est bein, and super awesome lovelylovely thank you thank yous for reviewing. I honestly have no idea what I'm doing with with this one so it's nice to know someone's enjoying it! Makes it all lovely loves. Merci mille fois lovelies.


	7. Belligerence and Glaring

Kenny sighed, absently poking a fork into his tub of noodles, shutting his eyes against yet another setting sun. Yet another invasion of deep, orange light. He was getting pretty sick of this. He was getting pretty sick of Stan and Kyle's tall little house, of their nice little appliances and hideous soft furnishing, he was getting pretty sick of their pointless fucking coat floor, their perfect fucking life. He was getting pretty sick of Stan working late, of being called over to keep Kyle company. He was getting pretty sick of _Kyle_. He was sick of playing babysitter, day after day, having to drive the sixty miles to Denver, having to spend the day watching Kyle wallow in his self-satisfied sofa-nest of duvets and blankets and cushions and Chinese food and motherfucking _misery_. It was getting to the point where he was seriously wondering if spending the day at home with Powder, if having to listen to her talk about baby names and scan dates and telling the family, if having to sit there and worry about money and work and Medicare, if all that shit would actually be _less _depressing then this. Maybe he was avoiding the wrong one. At least his wife usually let him fuck her at the end of their arguments; with Kyle all he got was belligerence and glaring.

Kyle swallowed a mouthful of rice, spitting out a yet another self-righteous, barbed insult to the man on the History Channel, glaring furiously at the TV. Kenny shut his eyes, pained and slow. He wondered how angry Stan would be of he just _smothered _him, just pinned him down with a cushion and made him _shut-up_. Kenny thought it'd be justified. The courts might even side with him. But Stan probably wouldn't. He'd probably get all upset or something. He'd probably refuse to ever talk to Kenny again. But then he was stupidly attached to his irate fucking _moggy_.

Kyle called the presenters mother a syphilitic whore, and Kenny stabbed his dinner.

"Fuck Kyle, when do you actually fucking _work_?"

Kyle pursed his lips, glaring across the room, glaring at Kenny. Two shining, angry eyes, partially hidden amidst a mass of wiry ginger hair and patterned, somewhat frou-frou blankets. It'd be funny if it wasn't so fucking terrifying. "I could ask _you_ the same question!"

"I work _nights_. I've always worked _nights_. I _told_ you that. You _know _that! Holy fuck, do you ever actually _listen _to me?"

"Yeah? Well I'm off sick! _You _know that!"

"_I know_. But being off sick doesn't mean you have to…" Kenny trailed off, not quite sure how to put whatever the fuck it was Kyle was doing into words. Regress into teenage-hood would probably be the closest thing, but he couldn't ever remember Kyle acting like this much of a whiney _bitch _during his teenage years. He was far more hardy back then. Probably because of Cartman or whatever. "You could, always, you know…" Kenny hesitated for a moment, gazing across the messy room, wondering if the words about to leave his lips were really, really brave, or really, really stupid. "Do some housework or something."

"I am _not_ the _fucking _maid!"

"I know you're not, _I know you're not_. But at least you'd be doing something _productive_. Christ, this whole mopey, depressing, love affair you've got going on with that hideous _fucking_ sofa ain't cute dude. You should really be _doing_ something!"

"_I am not the fucking maid_!"

"Fine! Well, then let's go for another run or something. Finish up eating, put on that… That delightful little _outfit_ of yours, and we'll go for a nice sunset jog around the block."

"Fuck _no_! I've already gone on _one_ of your _stupid_ runs, you're not tricking me into a second! I'd rather watch TV then go though that fresh hell again!"

"Well, what about work. Don't you have anything you need to catch up on? Surely you must have some paperwork or coding or Tetris or fucking _something_?"

"No! I'll do it when I go back."

"And when _are _you going back?"

"Next week or something, I dunno."

"How can you not know?"

Kyle shrugged petulantly, glaring at his dinner. "I don't want to go back."

"Why? I thought… I thought that's what you fucking _wanted_! I thought you were angry they'd made you stay off!"

Kyle hesitated. He _was_ angry at his office. He was angry that they'd made him stay home. He was angry that they'd not been calling him in. He was angry that they apparently didn't need him. He angry no-one seemed to need him. "They got rid of all the chairs. They make me sit on this stupid hoppity hop thing now. Apparently they're supposed to be good for your posture. Apparently it's supposed to make the company look all cool or whatever. I _hate_ it. I keep nearly sliding off the fucking thing. It's hard to fucking type when you're trying to balance on a fucking ball."

Kenny shrugged. "So what? Just pretend like you can't because of the accident or something. Trust me, they ain't gonna argue with you."

"They might."

"They _won't_. Nobody argues with you."

Kyle blinked. "Stan argues with me."

"Stan doesn't argue with you. Stan bickers with you. Stan sits there blinking whilst you argue with _him_."

"Stan _argues with me_."

"Oh, not this shit again. You're being a _retard_."

"Oh, how come?"

Biting his lip, Kenny pulled open his pork, balancing the box on his knee. "Your relationship is _fine_. Yeah, you bicker and snap occasionally, but it's not like you ever fight _seriously_. It's fucking easy for you two."

"For God's sake, it's never been _easy_ Kenny! How can you _say_ that?"

"Oh, come on! It's always been easy for you!"

"No, it _hasn't_! Remember what happened in collage?"

"_I_ didn't _go_ to collage titface!"

"I mean what happened to me and _Stan_ in collage! We're not talking about _you_, okay?"

Kenny rolled his eyes. They never talked about him. "You mean how fannied about reading some books or how you fucked a lot and _broke a bed_?"

"I mean the drinking thing Ken. _Remember the drinking thing_." Kyle's voice cracked, so he rammed a forkful of rice in his mouth to cover the waver. It was a valiant attempt, but wholly ineffective. "Fuck, dude, I nearly _lost_ him."

Sighing, Kenny toyed with his food, pushing it around the box. "I know Ky. And he knows. _Everybody_ knows. But dude, this isn't like that. That was serious, really serious. This, this you're just dramatising. You're _overreacting_."

"How am I overreacting?"

"It's a bit fucking much comparing Stan's genetic tendency towards alcoholism to a one time leering incident. He checked out one woman's ass; he's not hording bottles of _whiskey _Kyle."

"It wasn't just a one time thing, okay? He's done it a few times. He doesn't even try to _hide_ it Kenny!" Kyle just sighed, jamming his fork into his rice, spearing a piece of chicken. "It just, it feels like I'm loosing him. I really fucking _hate_ it!"

"Look Kyle, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Stan isn't giving you his attention twenty-four seven, I'm sorry he's aware other people exist, I'm sorry he's not oblivious to them, I'm sorry you feel the need to throw a conniption and commit hikikomori, I really _am_. But you're getting yourself worked up for no fucking reason. This really isn't comparable to the drinking thing."

"I know, I know it's not like that, like what happened in collage or whatever. I _know_ it's not, like, really all that _bad_ or anything. I'm…" Kyle sighed, leaning back, leaning against the armrest. The presenter on the History Channel introduced a flickering, black and white film clip; the flashing, jerky images illuminated the room in a jarring light. "I'm just getting tired of it, I guess. Tired of it all. Tired of _this _all."

"Kyle, _everybody_ leers at people sometimes. Fuck, I leer at people _all the time_. It's not like it _means_ anything, it means nothing. _I_ leer at _you_ sometimes. I leer at Stan too, sometimes. I leer at that chick who answers the phone at work _constantly_. She has, like, _massive _tits. None of it means anything though! At the end of the day, I always go home to my _wife_! I'll _always_, always go home to my _wife_!"

"No, no, Ken, it's not _just_ the leering. There's also the whole working late thing too. I mean, he's _always_ working late. Always coming home _hours_ after he's supposed to, always coming home exhausted, always running off to answer his phone during dinner, when we're talking, even at _night_, he's always fucking _busy_! I mean, I know people get busy, but he's _always_ _busy_. He's been "always busy" before, but he also always used to make time for me too! Now he won't even _pay attention_ to me when there's a better ass is wiggling by."

Kenny snorted into his noodles, spearing a few strips of pork with his fork. "Dude, when you say it like that, you just make it sound like he's having an _affair_."

Kyle froze, his mouth full of rice. "What?"

"Come on? Staying out late, secret phone calls, tired and distant? Dude, that's the cliché romance-affair plot down to a tee!" For a moment Kenny obliviously kept on chewing. Then Kyle beamed him with the remote.

"Fucking _ouch_, you dick!"

"Drive me to Stan's office!"

"_What_?"

"Fucking drive me to Stan's office!"

"Oh, Kyle, _no_. No. I was just _joking_. Don't be stupid."

"Ken, just drive me to Stan's office!"

"No! You're being _retarded_."

"I _don't care_." Kyle fought his way out of his nest, pulled himself to his feet, squaring his stance. The pissing contest stance. Kenny just groaned, rolling his eyes. Kyle didn't look threatening, not when his hair was all fluffy, not when he was still in his pyjamas. Not when he was still clutching a tub of rice with a two-handed, vaguely childlike grip. "Kenny, just _drive me to Stan's fucking office_!"

"Fuck Kyle, don't you at least want to get dressed or-"

"_No_! Shut the fuck up and drive me to Stan's office _now_!"

"Damn, has anyone ever told you want a demanding little _bitch_ you are?"

"Yes actually, now get in your _fucking_ truck and drive me to Stan's _fucking_ office!"


	8. Going to Stab You

"I cannot believe you're making me do this."

"Just shut up and drive!"

Kenny pursed his lips angrily, glaring out the windshield, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Kyle was sitting next to him, a trench coat haphazardly pulled across his chest, his arms crossed, his face plucked and flushed. Kenny frowned. He looked like a bitch on her period. All those times Cartman had said it, he was finally beginning to get what he'd meant. Kyle actually just _was _a bitch on her period, he was perpetually PMSing. Kenny blinked. He wasn't quite sure how Stan could stand it really. If it turned out his flippant comment had been right, and Stan actually _was _having an affair, Kenny really wouldn't blame him.

"You're being an idiot, you know?"

"_I don't care_. Just _drive_!"

"You should at least have gotten dressed! Fuck, they call _me_ white trash! _You're_ the one who can't even be arsed to get dressed, who's always running about in your fucking pyjamas, _you're_ the one forcing me to drive you to your boyfriends work place so you can scream him out. _You're_ the one behaving like a fucking _Maury_ _Povich_ contestant! Jesus Christ Kyle, I mean, _what the fuck_?"

"Yeah? Well fuck you! I _can't_ be white trash."

"Oh, _why_?"

"Because I'm _Jewish_! Only _goys_ can be white trash."

Kenny blinked, taking his eyes off the road long enough to give Kyle an incredulous look. "Since _when_?"

"Since forever! Since _shut the fuck up and keep your eyes on the fucking road_! Christ, I've already been in one accident this week, I don't need you getting me into another!"

"Oh my God, if you don't calm the fuck down and chill the fuck out, someone _is _going to stab you!"

Kyle gripped the dashboard. "Shut the fuck up and pull over!"

Cursing violently, Kenny skidded to the curve, accidentally catching the wing mirror of a parked car, accidently nearly tearing it off the door. Kenny blinked. The mirror was still attached, just bent, and scratched. Not that it mattered really, he had no intention of leaving his contact details regardless. Kyle didn't even wait for him to turn off the engine, the second the truck came to a stop, he'd yanked off his seatbelt and wrenched open the door. He was halfway across the street before Kenny had time to register what had just happened. Glaring slightly, he wound down his window, craning his head out into the night.

"You'd better hope Stan's not having an affair, because I'm sure as _fuck_ not driving your crazy ass home!"

Kyle didn't bother to respond. He simply raised his middle finger over his shoulder, an angry salute. He didn't even look back as he stormed across the street, heading towards the sliding glass doors.

You couldn't really call Stan's office building "nice". It was imposing, it was officeish, it was corporate, yeah, but it wasn't pretty. It was simply some Meisian glass box, a Meisian glass box surrounded by other Meisian glass boxes, lost in a maze of glass boxes, generic and cliché, cold and unwelcoming. Concrete and glass. There Stan's tiny little backroom office was, windowless and airless, plonked right down in the middle of the business districted, hidden away in a labyrinthine of outdated corridors, camouflaged amidst a glass forest. A glass forest amidst a financial crisis. It usually made Kyle slightly sad, the knowledge that Stan worked here. His own office building was distinctly postmodern, quirky and ironic, a sense of fun amongst the money and worry. All Stan had was seriousness, glass and concrete, money and worry.

Still, Kyle wasn't really in the mood to compare architecture, nor was he particularly empathetic, not today. He was angry, well, no, he wasn't so much angry as he was scared. He was sort of terrified really. But he didn't like being terrified. Being terrified made him angry. He was angry that he was scared, he was scared that Stan wouldn't be there, he wouldn't be in his stupid Meisian office block, shut away in his shit little office. He was scared Stan was somewhere else, somewhere seedy, somewhere with a bed and dimmed lights. Somewhere he shouldn't be, with someone who wasn't Kyle.

He was scared Stan would be there, doing something obscene, vulgar and wonderful, something he should only be doing to Kyle. He was scared Stan would be locked away in his office, or locked away in someone else's office, locked away with someone nubile and new, someone not Kyle.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Kyle stormed across the lobby towards the elevator, a gesture rendered somewhat pathetic when preformed in slippers, pyjamas and a flapping trench coat. Slippers didn't really make storming worthy stomps, they weren't imposing in any way really. They just sort of flapped along softly. It was all pretty depressing really. The whole scenario was pathetic.

Luckily, objectively, at least, (Kyle was too angry to care how ridiculous he looked or who saw him), the office block was pretty much deserted. Some lone janitor who didn't give a damn was pushing a buffer across the marble lobby floor, head bowed, mind elsewhere. Throughout the office block, a few lights were still humming, a few late night stragglers still working. A few pathetically keen receptionists still tapping away, adding up, transcribing. On the way up to Stan's office, Kyle passed a flustered young woman clutching a stack of papers to her chest. She glared at him, belligerent and exhausted, but she didn't say anything to him. No one dared say anything to him.

Kyle turned a corner, storming past a cleaning lady, a young woman pushing a hover across the carpet. He knew the way to Stan's office, he knew the pathway like the back of his hand. When Stan had first got it, Kyle used to drive down during his lunch hour, they used to meet up for twenty minutes. They used to have a sandwich together, shut away amongst Stan's filing cabinets, shut away in the awful 80's decor. They used to share a snack, or kiss, or frot, or shag shamelessly and silently on the desk, on his stupid ergonomic chair, against the wall. The door. They'd stopped doing that years ago, back when Stan had begun to get paranoid, paranoid that his cramped little office space was beginning to smell perpetually of sex.

Reaching Stan's door, Kyle didn't bother to knock. He just put his weight behind it, forcing it open, causing it to ricochet against its hinges. He wanted his entrance to be intimidating, dramatic. Just in case Stan really was doing something he wasn't supposed to with someone younger and prettier then him.

"Stanley!"

"Jesus, Kyle! What are you doing here? Are-are you okay?" Behind his desk, Stan was startled, staggering to his feet, tripping over his chair. Accidently pulling little mounts papers off his desk, scattering them across the floor. Stan's elderly, Meisian boss on the other hand, remained seated. He turned around in his chair, catching a single sheet of A4, glaring at Kyle with a look that seemed half shock, and half loating.

"Hello Mr. Browmousey."

Kyle just blinked, taking a step back. "Broflovski."

"Right, yes. What are you doing here?"

Kyle swallowed, biting his lip. He'd had never managed to make a particularly good impression when it came to Stan's boss, not really. Not at all. It had all stemmed from their first meeting, a meeting that saw Stan suddenly pull an unwilling Mr. Shenner from a crowd of suited and booted higher-ups, only to be presented with Kyle. Kyle, who had chosen that moment in time to ram one too many vol-au-vents into his mouth, had, inadvertently, just gagged himself with pastry. What followed had been an awkward silence that saw Mr. Shenner stare and a struggling, choking Kyle, who was looking back at his boyfriend's boss with vaguely ashamed eyes. Stan had remained oblivious to this awkwardness, he just stood there, beaming at Kyle with a pathetic kind of worship.

At that moment, whilst watching the wide-eyed redhead suffocate himself with the entrées, Mr. Sheener had decided that Stan's persistent infatuation with the wholly unimpressive entity that was Kyle was probably one of those things he was getting a little too old to understand.

Stan cleared his throat, stepping round his desk. "Sorry, he's… it's-it's my fault. We… We... We had dinner plans. I-I completely forgot."

Kyle just crossed his arms, discreetly pulling his coat shut, trying to hide his ratty lounge shirt.

Mr. Sheener raised his eyebrows. "You had dinner plans?"

"Yep, dinner plans. Completely forgot. I'm sorry. Ky, just-just go get yourself a cup of coffee, yeah? We'll… We'll be done in a minute."

Kyle blinked. "Alight."

Kyle just prayed his coat was covering his pyjamas. Stan just prayed Mr. Sheener didn't notice the slippers. Nether of them realised they didn't actually have anything to worry about. Kyle had always struck Mr. Sheener as the sort of guy who'd contemptuously wear plaid trousers to dinner.

Kyle didn't go to get a cup of coffee. He didn't want one. And he had no idea where the kitchen was. It'd been so long since he was last here, last in that kitchen, he'd forgotten the finer details of the layout. Instead, he'd just walked round a random corner, and awkwardly leaned against a random wall. He still held his coat shut discreetly across his chest, the cleaning lady still was pushing the vacuum cleaner across the carpet, and he was still flushing. He was embarrassed, wholly and absolutely embarrassed. It was pretty clear Stan wasn't doing anything he shouldn't be, he was just at work. Having a meeting. With his very heterosexual, very intimidating boss. Just like he'd told Kyle he would be.

After ten, awkward, embarrassing minutes, Kyle heard voices, and a door opening. Padding back down the corridor, he peered round the corner. Stan was waiting for him, framed by the doorway, his arms crossed across his shirt. Mr. Sheener was disappearing down the corridor, walking away in the opposite direction, muttering something under his breath.

Stan beckoned him over, disappearing back into his office. Kyle meekly padded in after him, his head dipped, shutting the door behind him.

"Seriously, what are you _doing _here?"

Kyle blinked, flushing slightly. "I just… I… Kenny said something stupid, and I sort of thought…" He trailed off weakly, staring up at Stan with a vaguely bug-eyed expression. He really didn't want to admit what he'd been mentally accusing Stan of doing. Now he was standing here, in the middle of Stan's shithole of an office, which smelt, Kyle thought, sort of peculiar, now he was standing in the middle of a nearly deserted building, he realised that no, no Stan wasn't cheating on him. Stan was honest and kind, Stan was decent and loyal, and Stan would, most likely, be very offended, maybe even mortally wounded, if he knew what Kyle had been thinking. Accusing. So Kyle just blinked up at him, still staring, still bug-eyed. He sort of hoped that if he just kept gaping and staring, Stan might think he was still concussed from the accident, or that he was sleepwalking, or delusional, or something. Something that left him not in control of his faculties, and hence, unblameable for his actions. Something that would explain away his rude intrusion. Something that Stan would take pity on him for, drive him home for, put him to bed for. Cuddle him for. Kiss him. Forget all about this awkwardness. This stupidity. His stupidity.

Stan frowned. "You thought what?"

"I dunno. I thought… I thought… I thought I'd come and see you."

"You thought... You thought you'd come to see me?"

"Yeah. Just… Just see you. See how you were doing, you know?"

Stan's frown deepened. Kyle didn't look particularly well. He was sporting the odd combination of bug-eyed staring, flushed and pallid. Quite frankly, it looked like he was a few minutes away from passing out. "Are you alright?

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look hypoglycaemic or something. Do you need something to eat?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Look, just, just sit down. I'll go get you a cookie."

"Seriously, I'm fine."

"Just sit."

* * *

><p>AN – Apologies apologies for the delay, I had an essay essay to write for Uni. Still, thank you thank you for reading reading, hope you're enjoying it so far, and an uber super duper thank you thank you for reviewing, is awesome and lovely and thank you so muches. Loves loves.


	9. Dirty Coffee Cups

Stan was sitting in his ergonomic office chair, one hand pressed against his temple, the other angrily clutching a sheet of paper. Kyle was sitting meekly on the edge of Stan's desk, one leg loosely crossed over the other, his head dipped. He was absently toying with the half-eaten cookie Stan had brought him, passing it from hand to hand, careful not to get crumbs on Stan's carpet. Stan would kill him if he got crumbs on his ugly office carpet. Why, Kyle didn't quite know; the pile was nothing short of hideous. So hideous, in fact, that even _Kyle_ could see it was hideous. Ugly, brightly coloured, geometric shapes and circles, sea green, yellow, red, were imposed on a sea of deep lavender. It was an embodiment of everything awful about the eighties, faded and ratty, begging to be replaced. Scattering it in crumbs wouldn't worsen its appearance, nothing _could_. Scattering of crumbs would at least offer the eye a distraction. Anyone would rather look at crumbs then at that carpet.

Kyle frowned, shifting slightly. He was tempted to just throw the cookie away, but he knew Stan wouldn't let him. He didn't really want it, he really didn't really _need_ it, but Stan had insisted he ate it. It was just easier to allow Stan to think he was in the midst of some befuddling hypoglycaemic haze then admit he'd stormed all the way down here because he'd thought Stan was cheating.

Stan exhaled, frowning angrily down at his page of sheet music, correcting it, rearranging it. Pretty much rewriting it. Kyle could still remember watching Stan learn to read sheet music. He'd always known tabs and chords as a kid, the pointless, half-assed stuff his dad had taught him, in between riots and beers, but he hadn't actually learnt to read sheet music properly until middle school. Until he started learning piano. He'd always hated it. The piano and the sheet music. Pianos always reminded him of his sister, and sheet music just irritated him. He thought in chords and tabs. He always would.

Kyle bit his lip, casually discarding the cookie on the desk next to him, dropping it into one of Stan's many, many dirty coffee cups. Stan didn't even blink.

"Are you alright?"

Stan frowned, glancing up. Sturdy, sturdy, strong, and soft. Kyle had always been sturdy, strong and soft. Always reliable, always _there_. Well, usually there. He had his moments. Everyone did.

"Yeah Ky, I'm… I'm _fine_. Are _you _alright?"

"Oh yeah, I'm great. I'm fine. That cookie… I'm fine."

"Good. I'm nearly done, we can go home soon. You can go home now, if you want. I'll call you a cab. Or you can call Kenny. Whichever."

"No, don't bother with a cab. There's no point. I'm fine waiting. And, Kenny won't come back. I think I've really pissed him off."

Stan pulled a face, still staring at his paper. He should probably test the alterations out, but he really couldn't be arsed. It was too late. It was dark outside. It was Friday. Who the fuck forces people to work late on _Fridays_? He didn't give a shit anymore. "How?"

"I dunno. He's been acting like a bit of a bitch recently. Got his panties in a twist for some reason."

Stan frowned, still staring at the sheet of music. The tempo was all wrong, it was really fucked up. It jarred with the pointless, irritating lyrics. He couldn't see how to fix it. "You should be nicer to Kenny."

"_Why_? Kenny's a _dick_. You should hear the things he says sometimes. He's pretty much the only reason I'm here."

Stan pulled a face. "I know, _I know_. But he's going though a lot at the moment. You should cut him some slack."

Kyle snorted. "Oh, what? Are they threatening to repossess his shack again?"

"C'mon dude, play nice. I know he can be a dick, but he's been helpful this week, watching over you, keeping you company whilst I've been busy."

"I'm not a _dog_ Stan. I don't need babysitting."

"You say that, but you do some fucked up shit when left alone. Even you have to admit that. Kenny didn't have to drive down, but he did." Stan pulled a face. "He's got a _lot_ on his plate at the moment."

Kyle got that look about him, that uppity, stuffy look. Pursed lips and set eyes. It was the same look his mother got when she was the last to know the school gate gossip. It was the look Kyle got when he thought his friends were keeping secrets. When he thought he was being left out. "What do you know that I don't?"

Stan shut his eyes. He hated this jingle he was writing. He hated the tune, he hated the lyrics. He hated his boss, he hated the product. But most of all he hated the client. He'd written song after song after song for these people, pop, classical, jazzy, slow, fast. None of them were right. They were never fucking happy. It was like they expected him to crap out Pachelbel overnight or something. Having to rewrite this shit again and again was really soul destroying. "Nothing Ky. It doesn't matter."

"I fucking _does _matter! What do you know?"

Stan glanced up, Kyle's fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. He was set, angry and belligerent. He wasn't going to let this go. He never, ever let anything go. Stan sighed, absently lifting a hand up, absently rubbing the side of Kyle's thigh. He really wasn't looking for a fight, not tonight.

"Powder's pregnant."

"She's what?"

"She's pregnant."

"Oh Christ." Kyle paused for a moment, blinking slowly. "Is it Kenny's?"

"What, dude? Of course it is! At least… At least I assume it is! Why on Earth would you think it wasn't?"

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't put it past her."

"Jesus dude, you really have to get over the whole stocky embargo. She said it _once_, she wasn't looking to _offend_ you. I mean, you _are _stocky. I call you stocky all the time!"

"But it's different when _you_ say it. You're _allowed_ to say it. She isn't!"

"Oh really? What makes me so special?"

"You're _you_. She _isn't_!"

Stan quirked his eyebrow. "She can't say it because she _isn't_ _me_?"

"Well, yeah." Stan just smiled wanly, tensing his fingers against Kyle's thigh for a second, glancing back down at the sheet music. Kyle just sighed, tilting his head back. "When's it due?"

"Hmm?"

"The baby. Their baby. When's it due?"

"I honestly have no idea. Not for a while yet. I think he still wants Powder to… To abort it."

Kyle frowned. "Why does he want her to abort it? Everyone's been having kids recently. Bebe's just had her second."

"I dunno. The recession. The shack. Powder's not working. They don't have the money. It's not a good time. Choose one."

"Christ, he lives in South Park. He's _Kenny_. It'll never be a good time. He might as well just _do_ it."

"Maybe. Maybe."

Stan blinked down, altering a note. Maybe they should just buy a song and adjust the lyrics. Write a parody. That seems like the sort of tacky thing these clients were looking for. Sighing slightly, Kyle absently fiddled with a stray pen, twisting it round his fingers. "Do you think he'll let us be "uncles"?"

"I really have no idea. He might."

"I hope he does. It might be fun. Babies can be quite cute in moderation. It's nice when you get to give them back, you know?"

"It would be good practice, I suppose."

"Practice for what?"

"Practice for when we have one."

Kyle snorted. "When we have one? Jesus Stan, that'll be a feat. Are you going to pop one out, or should I?"

"Dude, I'm being serious! C'mon!" Stan sighed, slamming his sheet of paper face down on the desk, groaning as he ran his fingers across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd stopped being able to see it long ago, the notes, the tune, the tempo, and lyrics had long since devolved into pointless squiggles and dots, white noise. He really had no idea what he was doing anymore. He was tired, really tired, he had a headache, his eyes hurt. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to take a shower, have something to eat, and go to bed. He just wanted to bury his face in Kyle's hair and go to sleep.

Biting his lip, Kyle reached across the desk, shifting a stack of papers, sliding across the cheap wood.

"Hey, c'mere." He braced his feet on the arms of Stan's chair, shifting over, letting Stan drive his face weakly into his lap. Letting Stan clutch at his back, grip his sides. It'd been a long day, a bitch of a week. A bitch of a week for the both of them. Kyle would be happy when it was over.

"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" Stan was addressing Kyle's crotch, a move Kyle found ironically apt.

Kyle shrugged, absently fiddling with the ends of Stan's hair. The amount of paperwork Stan had piled around him, the piles on his desk, on the filing cabinets, on the floor, they made him feel slightly bad. Slightly guilty. Slightly really, really guilty. He never really had paid all that much attention to Stan's job, to his workload. To what he had to do. He'd always been slightly too preoccupied with himself, with his own job, his own life. He'd always been slightly too selfish.

"You've been busy, I guess. I'm just bored, being at home. It's lonely, even with Kenny. I want to go back to work already. I want my car back. I want to _do _something. Christ, I just… I just don't know."

"I know. Look, how about we go for coffee tomorrow, how about we go get something to eat? We could go on nice walk. Like on a date? We haven't been on a date in a very long time."

Kyle bit his lip, glancing across at one of the less steady towers of paper. "Don't you have to work?"

"No." Stan frowned down at the paper. "That shit ain't getting any better. After the week they've put me though, I think they owe me my fucking Saturday."

"Do we have to go for a _walk_?"

"No dude, we can do whatever you want to. We can go watch a movie, or go to a gallery, or a museum, or whatever. Choose whatever pretentious cliché you want."

Kyle smiled. "Alright. It's a date."

"Good. Now let's go home. What do you want for dinner?"

"I've already eaten."

"Oh. You still hungry?"

Kyle pulled a face. "A little bit, yeah."


	10. It Was Nostalgic

It was slightly too cold to be sitting outside, slightly too windy, slightly too biting. But the coffee was hot, the view was nice, the seats were comfy, and they _were_ wearing jackets. Stan had insisted they bring jackets. Besides, the midday winter sun was fairly pleasing. Bright and warm, clear and cloudless. It was nice, Kyle thought, having Stan all to himself for a day. Being Stan's sole focus. No work talk, no phone calls, no abruptly leaving the room, no Mr. Sheener. No sheet music, no random pieces of paper, no fucking jingles. None of that. No, Stan was being amenable, indulgent even, he was letting Kyle drag him around art galleries, drag him across Denver, drag him to all those cliché, pretentious date places Kyle enjoyed, and Stan tolerated. He was giving Kyle whatever he wanted, driving him wherever he wanted. Escorting him, following him. Buying him coffee. It was just like they were courting again, the same clumsy sweetness. It was nostalgic.

Kyle smiled; if he shut his eyes and faced the sun, if he blocked out the milling people, muted the noise, he could sort of make believe that they weren't in Denver, that they weren't in Colorado. That they weren't even in America. With his eyes shut, they could be anywhere really. Well, anywhere with a Northern wind, with a vaguely busy road. Some leisurely, wintry, European city, sitting on a sprawling boulevard, cobbled road and old, old buildings. Paris, Belgium. They could be in Canada, Russia. They could be anywhere. They could go anywhere. They could leave tomorrow, right now, they could just pack a bag and go. Quit their jobs, sell the house. Do something really stupid. They could leave, they could travel the world. They weren't even thirty yet. They had no obligations, no dependencies. No anything. No nothing. Nothing like that.

Kyle bit his lip, turning his face towards Stan. "Do you think he'll be okay?"

"Hm, who?"

"Kenny. The whole Powder… Situation. Do you think he'll be okay?"

Stan sighed, clutching his coffee cup in both hands, frowning out across the street. "He'll… He'll be fine. He's Kenny. He's always fine come the morning. They'll… They'll make it work somehow. Resilience, you know?"

"Hopefully."

"Mm, hopefully."

Kyle smiled half-heartedly, picking up his coffee cup, absently fiddling with the handle. "I'm going back to work on Monday. I'll hire a car tomorrow. I'm sick of waiting for mine."

"Hm?"

"Even if they don't want me there. I'm fucking going. I'm sick of that house. I'm sick of that _TV_."

"Mm."

"It's driving me insane. Also, we need to get a new couch. I _hate_ that green one."

"Mm."

Frowning, Kyle looked up. Stan wasn't listening to him. Stan was looking out across the street. Stan was _leering _out across the street. Across the road, a woman was standing with her back to them, arms crossed as she admired a garish window display.

Pursing his lips, Kyle slammed down his coffee cup, causing the dregs of liquid to slosh dangerously against the china sides. "For fucks sake Stan! We're on a fucking _date_. Can you _please_ not do that for like, _one fucking day_?"

Stan started, frowning down at him. "Sorry, but what am I doing?"

"I mean, I know-" Kyle felt himself flush slightly, anger or embarrassment, he wasn't quite sure. It was probably a mixture of both. "I know I'm hardly _pick of the fucking litter_, but do you really have to be so _obvious_?"

"Kyle, what are you talking about? What am I doing?"

"Checking all these fucking women out with that _leer_ on your face!"

Stan was staring at him with a very aghast look. "What women? Why would I be checking out _women_? Shit Kyle, what the fuck?"

"I dunno, but you _were_!"

"When?"

"Like, _right then_! Five minutes ago! _Her_!"

Stan frowned, starting across at the woman Kyle was (very rudely) pointing at. Then the penny dropped. "Oh, no. No Kyle, no. Just..." Stan paused slightly, before lifting up his coffee cup, holding it over his mouth. Just in case the woman could lip read or whatever. "Dude, just look at what she's _wearing_."

Frowning, Kyle glanced away from Stan, back to the woman, then back to Stan. Then he did a double take, and narrowed his eyes. "Dude, what the fuck's up with… Wait, has she _painted_ her jeans on?"

"Wendy says their called _wet look jeggings_. They're like, clingy spandex leggings things. That look wet. And like denim."

"God… Those are… Those are… Those are _awful_! Fuck me."

"I know. I mean, even _you _can see that they are _hideous_."

Kyle ignored the insult. "Holy… Who the fuck would think buying _them_ was a good idea? Wait-" Kyle paused, gripping Stan's arm frowning slightly. "I think Powder has a pair of them."

"Dude, I _hate _them. And I have to fucking _sell _them."

"God, really?"

"Yeah, it's like this massive ad campaign. They want me to come up with a "trendy" song about them! I've written about three! Nothing pleases them! But fuck, I mean, what can I sing? Buy a pair so you can white trash up your wardrobe with one single purchase? Don't feel cheap enough as is? Well now you can spend obscene amounts of money to look even cheaper? Lower your social standing threefold with a single pair of pants? God Kyle, it's fucking _impossible_! I just-I can't do it!"

"I'm sure you can think of _something_. I mean, they're really fucking _slutty_. Girls like slutty things, yeah? Slutty equals sexy, right? Surely you can write something smutty?"

Stan just groaned, rubbing his hand across his face. He didn't want to write something smutty. He didn't want to write _anything_, not anymore. He was _done_. Then he froze, looking up through his fingers. "Wait, you thought I was _checking _those girls_ out_? Dude, is this why you've been acing so _weird_ lately?"

"I've not been acting weird lately!" Kyle lied. Badly.

"You crashed your car. You've been _sulking _like a _bitch_. You went _running_ the other day! Fuck Kyle, you _hate _running. You hate _going outside_. That was pretty weird."

Kyle pulled a face, tilting his head away. "Perhaps I just wanted some exercise."

"And the storming into my office thing?"

Kyle blinked. "Perhaps I just wanted to surprise you."

"Dude, you were wearing your _pyjamas_!"

"Yes. I wanted to add to the _surprise_." Kyle emphasised that last word by wiggling his fingers, arching both hands across his chest in a sarcastic, jazz-fingered, rainbow type gesture. "Pyjamas are surprising."

"Not as surprising as the _outfits_ you usually wear."

"Oh, _fuck you_."

"C'mere." Stan was grinning now, reaching out, reaching across the little white table, trying to catch him in a hug. Kyle backed away, dodging the hand. "Ky… Kyle, you're all the arse I need, you can rest assured of that. You're all the everything I need. All the everything and a _whole lot more_ to boot."

Kyle narrowed his eyes, still wriggling out of Stan's grasp. A passer-by eyed them wearily. "That sounds vaguely offensive. Are you trying to offend me? Should I be offended?"

Laughing, Stan caught him, pressing a kiss against Kyle's hair, watching him flush slightly. "Dude, no, but you be offended if you want."

"So what? You weren't ogling their junk, you were checking out their _pants_? Oh God, that's just _gay_."

"I was glaring at their pants. You thought glaring was leering? How can you not know what my leering face looks like? You're pretty much the only reason I _have_ a leering face!"

"I don't note down all your expressions Stan! It's _your_ fault they all look the same!"

"We can't all be as animated as _you_ now, can we?"

Kyle frowned. "Well, you could if you just _tried_."

"I love you Ky."

Sighing, Kyle just kneaded his face with the base of his palms, squeezing his eyes shut against the sunlight.

"Even though I can be a bit of a retard sometimes?"

"Even though you're kind of a retard sometimes."

"Even when I get worked up over nothing?"

"Even when you get worked up over nothing."

Kyle's lip quirked. "Even though I have a fat arse?"

"Especially because you have a fat arse. You know, Bebe was right about your arse. Your arse is the epitome of perfection. Your arse is the eighth wonder of the modern world. Your arse is an unframed masterpiece. Your arse puts Benini's sculptures to shame, no grand master has ever come close to painting an arse as perfect as yours. Kyle, your arse was forged atop Mount Olympus by the very Gods themselves!"

Kyle's lip quirked. He tilted his head away to hide his smile. "Well, I'm glad you appreciate it."

* * *

><p>AN – C'est fini! It's over! And I really have no idea. This was an utterly pointless endeavour, I know, but hey, it was kinda fun to write. Nevertheless, I hope hope you enjoyed reading it, thank you for bearing with it. Super awesome lovely lovely uber uber thank you thank you's for reviewing, is wonderful and awesomesauces and really lovely lovely of you, so candyfloss candyfloss 3

Anyhoot, exam exam season starting, it's the final year push! Hopefully I'll be back come the summer with something brand-spanking-new and slightly more pointed. Until then, stay safe safe, and chao chao!


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